


Revenge Served Cold

by MindYourMind



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Blood and Gore, Bring Lots of Tissues, F/M, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, OC is the Villain, Yuri Plisetsky Swears A Lot, YuuYu, sad fic is sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2018-12-31 03:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12123135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindYourMind/pseuds/MindYourMind
Summary: The Capitol's representative drew Yuri Plisetsky's name as tribute. Yuuri tried to volunteer in his place, but Victor's hand sealed his lips.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I'm a week behind schedule! Moving + a little overtime + head cold + mood swings is not a good combo. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> Projected length: 8 chapters. Rated mature for lots of blood, gore, and swearing. As with all my fics, no sex. (The tag “Yuri Plisetsky Swears A Lot” was swiped from BNHA's "Bakugou Katsuki Swears A Lot.") 
> 
> The only people 100% sure to live in this AU are Yuuri, Yuri, and Victor. Everyone else is at risk, fair warning. (Why did I choose such a depressing AU??? This fic is gonna be the death of me.)
> 
> Katniss Everdeen has a very special place in my heart. She is unsociable, fierce, pragmatic, and protective. And she hates shaving her legs. Reading the books made a huge impact on me. Being anxious and wary about EVERYTHING made sense, so you could survive, get out, and go home. It was cathartic in a messed-up way. Still will never forgive what happened to Prim, though.
> 
> I could not capture the right ambience or atmosphere for the damn opening scene to save my life. But this is the closest I could manage.
> 
> Imagery:  
> 19th- and 20th-century farmers and city workers: [1](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/6a/0e/b8/6a0eb808308ab3af8ca9f6b3d4110ea8.jpg), [2](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/d3/a4/23/d3a423b3bef8d85b2ed2e2c86345f8f9.jpg).  
> Anya's [dress](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/9a/77/f5/9a77f596991b0523a26aa2d2930f5830.jpg), [hat](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB1qjYURXXXXXXcXFXXq6xXFXXXY/2017-NEW-11colours-font-b-Navy-b-font-blue-Wide-brim-Crystal-organza-font-b-hat.jpg), and [shoes](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/ff/78/fc/ff78fc56c292b25d0f3e2ee828d6f10b.jpg).
> 
> Mood Music:  
> [My Demons - Starset](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p-N_y1bZtRw)  
> [Hail to the King - Avenged Sevenfold](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DelhLppPSxY)  
> [Land of Confusion – Disturbed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YV4oYkIeGJc)  
> [Lost Girls - Lindsey Stirling](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWn7PYm-W90)
> 
> Unbeta'd. Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games or Yuri!!! on Ice. Just my anxiety.

Sweat trickled down the back of Yuuri's neck as he craned to look behind him. _Please, Mari, stay home like I asked_ , he thought. No sign of Mari trying to sneak among the pockets of teenagers gathered together. None of the set jaws or chewed lips or tugged ears belonged to her.

He shifted his gaze further back, scanning the young children and adults standing behind strings of ropes. Separated from the teenagers of age for reaping, lest their presence distract or comfort. The adults looked jaded, even by adult standards. As if their souls were bleeding out from the corners of their eyes, before there was even time for crow's feet to form.

Far too many children were whimpering or hugging the nearest grownup leg, knowing something bad was rumbling like the thunder heralding a storm. Even naïveté could not protect them from what they had to watch soon.

Mari wasn't there, either. He sighed softly in relief and wiped a few droplets off his neck.

The bodies around Yuuri made up a sea of sunbleached browns, greys, blues, and greens. The women, girls, and young children clenched their fists in frocks in vogue three hundred years ago. The older boys and men idly adjusted suspenders holding up baggy, burlap-textured trousers. Yuuri's trousers barely touched his ankles, thanks to his latest growth spurt.

All eyes squinted under the grim radiance of the sun at its midday post. All eyes were looking up at the enormous screen above a rickety podium.

All eyes except Yuuri, Victor, Yuri, and a few other rebels. Yuuri glanced to his left and to his right, and saw Victor and Yuri engaged in some sort of staring contest. Maybe they were annoying each other. Maybe they were plotting a surprise. Maybe they were trying to strike up a telepathic connection. It wouldn't be the first time. Yuuri spotted Otabek up near the front, stubbornly studying the ground. Otabek's shoulders were rigid, as if he still carried a yoke to water the hard-to-reach portions of the fields.

Yuuri glanced at the white-armored enforcers stationed along the perimeter. Each enforcer held a staff lazily angled across a shoulder. The posture was just rigid enough to maintain a semblance of respect and order. Yuuri was grateful that so long as no one made noise or moved too quickly, enforcers in Sector 7 didn't care if you showed proper attention to the force-fed imagery.

Enforcers in other Sectors weren't always patient when dealing with humdrum daily life.

Yuuri looked back at the screen to gauge how much longer the yearly propaganda playlist had to run. His hands clenched, unclenched, and clenched in a controlled rhythm. It was a good way to remind himself to let his anxiety flow away, instead of drown him.

The narration was past the embellishment on the great war, where entire civilizations were wiped out by chemical and nuclear weapons. Past the relocation of the remnants of the nations, moved around like chess pieces and united into seven Sectors under one banner – Sarcon. Past the hollow assurances that Sarcon offered the peace, the stability, the integrity no nation of the past could rival.

Now he just had to ignore the summary of the previous fifty-nine Games. Ignore the celebration of the supposed freedom of humanity, in which the Capitol stripped some youths of what little freedom they still called their own.

Yuuri couldn't help glancing at the recent Games showing the five wins of Victor Nikiforov. His eyes always found the bright images of a boy with blue eyes, swift arrows, and a silver braid. His mind couldn't block the memories of the fear and disgust he had felt, watching the Games live on one of the few working televisions in Sector 7. Watching Victor forced to claw away at the lives around him in order to keep his own.

He felt a chill ratcheting up his spine, spurring on an urge to wrap Victor in a hug. To thank him for working to stay alive, to be here with Yuuri and Yuri once again. To begin an apology for how the day would end. To ask Victor to coax Yuri once tomorrow dawned.

Not that Victor had more sway over the irascible Yuri. But rather, Victor and Yuuri had more sway working together than working alone. Yuuri wanted to thump Yuri on the back and challenge him to bounce back from this reaping like he didn't care.

Yuuri was terrified. His friends and his family were not going to be able to think back on this day without flinching for a very long time.

As the video ended to fade into the national symbol of Sarcon, an ember neither blazing nor dying, a woman mounted the podium. Enforcer arms on either side of her holding her steady up the steps, she wore the deepest, richest blue Yuuri had ever seen. The frock was long and tapered, like a nightgown sewn on like a second skin, littered with dozens of petals along her shoulders. Down her back cascaded a cape that could trip twenty men behind her. The enforcers gave it a wide berth. Over her brown coils of hair floated a gauzy hat almost the size of a wash basin.

When she walked up to the pulpit swiped from the nearest dilapidated church, Yuuri saw a flash of petal-strewn high heels. No wonder she walked like a fawn on ice. It was jarring to see Capitol fashions here on the fringes of Sector 7, no matter how many Capitol representatives he saw. Here, where such finery was more a hazard than anything else. He wondered how many bowls of _katsudon_ the materials alone were worth.

“Good afternoon, Sector 7!” the woman spoke into the microphone brightly. Yuuri was relieved the microphone didn't screech like last year. “Welcome to the reaping for the 60th annual Games! My name is Anya, and I'm honored to be here. I see so many faces taught with anticipation!”

 _You wouldn't be saying that if you looked any of us in the eye_ , Yuuri thought.

Yuri snorted softly to his right and muttered, “What faces? She's only glancing at the cameras in the corners.”

“It's what you do to survive, Yuri,” said Victor gently, voice rumbling in Yuuri's left ear. “It's her job to be here.”

Yuuri could have sworn Victor's voice was getting deeper every day, which it probably was, given the reigning champion was nineteen now. This would be Victor's last year as an eligible tribute for the reaping. Yuri's stomach rumbled, so Victor took the last of his rabbit jerky from a lint-lined pocket and nudged Yuuri to pass it to Yuri.

“I'm sure there are other jobs,” said Yuri. He snatched the jerky from Yuuri's subtly cupped palm and started chewing.

Yuuri shot Victor a grateful glance. Wise of him to keep Yuri's smart mouth busy with food. He tried to read Victor's expression, but he couldn't. The left side of Victor's face was veiled in silver bangs, and the right schooled into sleepy boredom.

“I can hardly contain myself!” Yuuri heard Anya drone on. “Who will represent this fine district today? Let's find out, everyone!”

Yuuri looked to Yuri, munching on the last strip of jerky already (everyone in Sector 7 ate either very fast or very slow). Yuri hid as much of his face as he could behind mangy tufts of yellow hair dipping to his collarbone. With a start, Yuuri realized that Yuri must have gotten the idea of hiding behind his hair from Victor.

Yuuri glanced to Victor again, this time catching his attention and breaking his facade. Victor turned to smile at him, blue eyes almost as warm and fathomless as the sky that day. But unlike the unblemished sky, Victor's eyes were clouded.

Even after five reapings and five wins, this must not get any easier for Victor.

Up on the podium, an enforcer was stepping forward to hold out a clear bowl with hundreds of folded scraps of paper. Anya slipped her arm inside and skimmed around like a cat gathering the good bits from a butter churn.

In his peripheral vision, Yuuri saw Victor wiping a palm against grey trousers that ended halfway up his calves, then reaching up and squeezing Yuuri's shoulder. Yuuri smiled back at him.

 _You'll probably punch me in the shoulder in a few minutes,_ Yuuri mused. _Maybe you'll forgive me by the end of the year._

He looked back to Anya, who was trying to daintily dab her nose with a lacey handkerchief. The alfalfa fields to the north and east tended to disagree with everyone who hadn't grown up around them. Sector 7 alfalfa was a breed like no other. He wiped sweat from the back of his neck again, resisting the urge to dig his fingernails into the skin and give himself something else to think about.

The woman put the handkerchief away and finally pulled her arm from the bowl. Clearing her throat, she smiled again and nearly tore the paper in her eagerness to open it.

The Capitol's representative drew Yuri Plisetsky's name as tribute. Yuri's full name echoed in the stale air. Yuuri tried to volunteer in his place, but Victor's hand sealed his lips. Yuuri nearly choked in surprise and despair. Yuri sneered at Yuuri, shoved his hands in his pockets, and trudged past all the shoulders of the girls and boys between him and the podium.

“It's okay, Yuuri,” Victor whispered into Yuuri's ear. “Your selflessness is admirable, but we both know Yuri is better in a fight. We planned for this. Trust us. You're more help to both of us if you're safe. We'll request you to be our liaison and mentor.” Victor was nuzzling Yuuri's temple and running his free hand through Yuuri's hair, as if such gestures could make up for Yuuri's internal distress.

Yuuri's focus was narrowed on Otabek, turning to stand and watch as Yuri advanced with chin jutted in defiance. _Come on, come on, do it, Otabek, it's what we agreed on._

Otabek did nothing. He nodded a sort of farewell to Yuri as he shuffled past, and Yuri only blinked in response. At least, that's what Yuuri thought. It was hard to tell with Yuri's hair in the way. Then Otabek looked back to Yuuri, and shook his head briefly.

Yuuri concentrated on breathing through his nose. He blinked back tears, willing himself into a semi-calm, semi-braced state. He had promised his contacts, Yuuko and Phichit and Chris, and their teams that he and Otabek would grace the podium today. And Otabek had just made a liar out of him.

Otabek wasn't given to flights of fancy. He had to have a reason behind this departure from their rehearsed charade. And it had to be _good_ for Otabek to gamble so much upon it.

Anya was at it again with the bloated fishbowl, smiling at Yuri standing on the podium next to her. As if she had half a mind to let him announce the next name in her place. Yuri's scowl was obvious even through his hair, and she looked away with a frigid edge to her lips. After a delicate sniff, she unraveled the next slip of paper and spoke the name every ear present was expecting.

There was no way the five-time champion could slip away from the Games for the sake of a flimsy thing like plausibility.

Victor accepted his name washing over to him like it had for a quarter of his life, with a faint, contented smile. He pressed his lips to Yuuri's hairline, then withdrew both hands, snapped his suspenders and smoothed his shirt.

As he stepped forward, though, Yuuri surged ahead of him.

“I VOLUNTEER!”

And here came the moment Yuuri dreaded almost as much as the Game itself. Every head swerved in his direction, like so many doves starting at the clapping of hands, tensing for a predator. Every hair on his body stood on end as he felt innumerable eyes gauging him, weighing his worth.

As if already bracing to preserve his life, his senses shut down, and all he could focus on was the rough boards of the podium as he stared ahead. Get to the podium. Get on the podium. Leave the podium when led. That was Yuuri's entire purpose in life, for this moment. The rest could wait.

For some reason, Yuuri wasn't moving forward. He wanted to shake himself, will his leaden limbs to move. Then he looked down and saw that one of Victor's legs was hooked around him own, pinning him in place. And then he registered pain branching down his arms from his biceps, and sure enough, he saw Victor's fingers clutching hard enough to bruise.

Screaming. Yuuri realized all he heard, after the initial hum of shock around him, was screaming. Rugged, terrified, angry screaming. He blinked in confusion at the people around him as he tried to wrench away from Victor's grip. All of them were watching with lips pressed together grimly. It took a moment for it to sink in that it was _Victor_ who screamed first.

He turned to crane behind him. Victor's eyes were wild and haggard, mouth open as if he'd never stop screaming, if that's what it took for the enforcers to ignore Yuuri's bid for tribute.

Yuuri breathed deeply, realizing there was one more voice screaming along with Victor. He looked and looked, but it wasn't until he saw Otabek staring at the podium that Yuuri looked in the right direction. Yuri was practically jumping up on and down on the podium in fury.

Yuuri couldn't understand a word from either of them. Everything leaving Victor's mouth sounded like a garbled whine in Yuuri's ears. Yuri's screams seemed like that of a banshee who'd been screaming a hundred years too long and too late. Victor was clawing at him as he tried to walk away. Tears were spilling down Victor's cheeks, as if racing each other like Victor had raced competitors at the start of each Game.

Yuuri felt a part of him die at the sight, and the rest of him falter. He didn't know if he could bear causing Victor and Yuri this pain.

He averted his eyes from Victor, bracing himself and pushing forward, dragging Victor behind him. Idly, Yuuri wondered if he had more strength in his thighs and calves than he thought; or if Victor was just that weakened by his injured leg. (If he _was_ weakened, so much the better that Yuuri was volunteering.)

It took four enforcers to drag Victor away from Yuuri. Yuuri whispered his thanks, bowed his head in apology to Victor, and ran all the way up to the podium. Part of him was still terrified that if he didn't make it there fast enough, Anya would use her power as the Capitol's puppet to ignore his plea, and summon Victor anyway.

An enforcer joined him as he passed Otabek with a nod, and ushered up to stand beside Yuri. Yuri was quiet now, refusing to look at him. Yuuri wondered if he would keep that attitude up, even when they entered the Game arena.

He squinted out at the crowd, trying to focus on what Anya was saying. Thankfully, his senses seemed to clear, and words filtered into his distracted awareness.

"And for the first time in five, no, excuse me, _six_ years, a newcomer volunteers in the place of our own Victor Nikiforov!" Anya's voice was strained, though with surprise or dismay or elation, Yuuri couldn't parse. He stared in awe at a perfectly manicured hand gripping his shoulder in the same place Victor had grasped. "Tell me your name, young man."

She shepherded him to the microphone at the podium. Yuuri had a strange feeling he should be launching into a sermon or blessing a wedding, and not telling the world who he was.

"I'm Kat--I'm Yuuri Katsuki," he said, remembering the given name, family name order just in time. There weren't many traditions salvaged from the cultural purge when Sarcon was first established. But what did survive, Yuuri etched into his memory to pass down orally to the next generation. His voice was neither steady nor confident nor inspiring, so he rushed out the next words to dismiss them and move on. "I love my family and my Sector, so I will try to win, though I'm no Nikiforov. I will do what I must." And because he could see Victor still standing with four guards preventing his movement, he apologized again as best he could. He put one hand over his heart raised the other arm, angling shoulders and hips to fall parallel with his arm as he pointed to Victor.

_Please forgive me, Victor. Please._

"Oh, two Yuris! How darling!" Anya cooed, lips puckered and hands waving, as Yuuri finished his salute and stood blushing like a wild violet. "I gather you are all friends, since you were both standing with Nikiforov moments ago?"

"We're not friends anymore!" Yuri shouted from beyond Anya, then fell silent again, chewing through his fingernails one by one.

Anya must have correctly wagered that Yuuri's tense smile was begging for her interference. She led Yuuri aside and took custody of the pulpit again.

"There you are, Sector 7!" She beamed over the crowd at the cameras. "Cheer for your tributes, Yuri Plisetsky as drawn from the bowl, and Yuuri Katsuki as a volunteer!"

Barely a breath of wind disturbed the silence that steeped into everyone's bones like the relentless sunbeams. Those representing Sector 7, both on and off the podium, held their ground and their peace.

Then Otabek mirrored Yuuri's gesture, only now he was pointing at Yuuri and Yuri. One by one, everyone except the very youngest children followed suit. Even the enforcers relaxed around Victor to allow him to kiss his fingers and point to the two tributes who were to inherit his legacy.

"What the fuck have you started, you weird bastard?" Yuri asked, blue-green eyes staring at Yuuri like he'd sprouted wings.

Anya shot the younger boy a quick glare, no doubt grateful the microphone was too far to pick up his commentary. Ever unflappable, she stepped forward and cut the silence down like it was a living, breathing thing, launching a prepared speech. Yuuri assumed it was for viewers tuning in via television, now that the 7th and final Sector had concluded its reaping.

Enforcers marched forward to hurry the tributes away. Yuuri followed the first enforcer off the podium.

They skidded down the shaky causeway at the back of the podium with faint fanfare in the background. At least, the fanfare sounded faint compared to the pounding in Yuuri's ears. As if he needed the drums of war to make their home in his head. His senses were taking a sort of _siesta_ again. Mechanically, he trailed like a wayward duckling after the tall, quiet enforcer.

Yuri's toes scuffed at his heels, probably intent on tormenting Yuuri without ceasing in retaliation. Either that, or the guards behind them were prodding Yuri to walk faster. Yuuri wasn't interested in glancing back to find out.

Yuuri blinked, and they were walking down a hallway to a door that opened into towards the hall itself, Figarello style. Figarello doors were designed to make you draw the door toward you. It was supposed to symbolize tugging the universe your way to forge your way. Yuuri thought it was really just Figarello's ego at resenting anything trying to move out of his reach. Yuuri and Yuri padded into a threadbare room with only one chair.

Yuuri didn't realize that Anya had followed after the enforcers, so the sound of her voice made him look up in surprise. She was leaning against the door, probably for a moment's relief from the heels. "One moment, darlings. We have to make sure your transport is ready. Meanwhile, visitors will be given five minute audiences with each of you. I'll be back to take you on the first leg of your journey before you know it!"

And Anya smiled beatifically at them, before slapping the door shut with a five-inch studded heel.

No sooner had the door closed, than Yuri tried to knock Yuuri over with a high-flying kick. Yuuri anticipated the move, and stepped aside so Yuri's foot only brushed against his homespun sleeves.

"You are the biggest fucking idiot I know."

The words were spoken so softly, Yuuri almost didn't believe Yuri was the one speaking. But only Yuri used expletives so freely.

"Save your yelling until after Otabek comes and goes," Yuuri advised. The lump in his throat was so large, he was amazed his voice didn't quaver.

Yuri stiffened. "He's already said goodbye. I didn't want him to come here, so he won't."

 _Ah. I knew it,_ Yuuri thought. There was the confirmation that Yuri had planned to make it on the podium after the reaping, one way or another. Yuuri was glad for it. Yuri may not be mentally prepared to fight in the Game alongside him, but he was ready for everything else. They could work up to working together. Eventually.

The door opened toward them, and Otabek strode through with jaw clamped tighter than an enforcer's grip on a staff. Yuri's eyes widened with shock yet again.

 _He really isn't enjoying any surprises today_ , Yuuri mused. _I suppose I'm going to have to confide more than I planned, or he won't cooperate._ A part of him took a bit of slightly spiteful pleasure that Otabek was breaking promises with everyone today.

Victor burst through the door. Yuuri drew himself up, bracing for a harsh scolding. Victor did not even look at him. The five-time champion made a beeline for Yuri and swept him into a crushing hug, then whispered in his ear. Yuri, jaw only saved from hitting floor by the press of Victor's shoulder, was too flabbergasted to shove Victor off.

Yuuri blinked a couple times. One moment, Victor was patting Yuri's back like the big brother Yuri would never acknowledge. The next, Victor was surging towards Yuuri with his face paler than when he'd fainted in his third Game.

Yuuri blinked again, and Victor flooded his vision. He had Yuuri's head cupped in his hands, fingers framing the stems of his glasses and his jaw.

“Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri. Why?” Victor whispered.

Yuuri had no answer, his brain overwhelmed with quelling an instinct to panic. Victor was too close, too impulsive, too agitated, too . . . fond. Fondness had to be the only reason he was ignoring Yuuri's need for personal space. Yuuri didn't want to accept this fondness. But he couldn't afford denial anymore, not when denial of even the littlest thing could get him killed in the arena.

If Yuuri had been a rival tribute with Victor this close, he'd be dead by now, either by arrow to the face, dagger to the heart, snapped neck, or asphyxiation.

“Yuuri, look at me.”

Yuuri knew he could not bear to meet the blue eyes that must be swimming with tears, so he kept his own eyes downcast. Victor sighed and laid his forehead against Yuuri's temples, hands still about Yuuri's ears. Sure enough, wet tears fell on Yuuri's cheeks. Yuuri was getting too good at predicting how his friends would react.

“Yuuri. Please, I'm begging you, look at me.”

Yuuri stared at the floor as if his life depended on it. This litany of his name falling of Victor's lips was making Yuuri almost regret his choice.

He felt Victor shifting, heard Victor sigh, felt a warm puff against his cheekbones. “Do you plan on avoiding the eyes of everyone in the arena? How can you possibly win then?”

And like a bolt of lightning, anger rocketed down Yuuri's spine. He shook out of Victor's hold before he knew what he was doing, and Victor stepped aside. Yuuri raised his eyes and glared. Victor's tear-stained cheeks were red, and his blue eyes were wide, like he didn't recognize Yuuri. “I have a plan, Victor,” he said. “I'm not helpless or hopeless.”

“What, you think we didn't have a plan?” Yuri sniped at him from across the room. Yuuri glanced at him. Yuri's glare spoke of much more than his voice did. _You're digging your own grave and making us watch._

“Oh, I knew all too well,” Yuuri responded. “I tried to tell you what you needed to know to strengthen your plan. And _both of you snubbed me_. I had to take matters into my own hands.”

Yuuri had expected Victor to feel chastened and Yuri to protest. But Yuri was the one who seemed to redden with shame, though he tried to hide it by shaking his hair forward. Victor was shaking his head vehemently in disagreement.

“No, Yuuri, we didn't snub you,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “We were protecting you. You shouldn't have tried to do everything on your own.”

Yuuri leveled them both with his best critical raised brow. He hoped it had the desired effect. "So you two can plot without my knowledge, but heaven forbid I plot on my own?"

Otabek cleared his throat. “Victor. I don't know exactly what's going on, but from what I've just heard, it sounds like you should have told him your plan if you didn't want him to interfere.”

Victor deflated, and shot Yuuri an apologetic, yet still wounded look. “I'm sorry, Yuuri. I'm . . . I can't forgive you for this, but I'm sorry I made you feel you needed to do this.”

Yuuri sighed. He would have to do without forgiveness for now. He shot a grateful look at Otabek, almost forgiving him for standing aside when Yuri walked to the podium. “We've only got a little while before we're separated for the first half of the train ride. I'll summarize. Victor, there was a plot to sabotage you in your sixth Game. After your fourth Game, I made contacts in each of the other districts to help frustrate that. The final move was for me or Otabek to win this year your place and carry on your legacy.

"I have another plan, a bigger one, but . . . I need time to finalize a few details before I can tell you. I also need to say we're still a go for everything, just with Yuri instead of Otabek. But I will tell you, both of you."

Yuri stalked over to Otabek and tugged on his sleeve. "Has he seriously been going on about this for two years?"

Otabek nodded.

"When were you going to tell us, Otabek?" Victor asked, looking as if he was a couple seconds away from joining Yuri in tugging at him petulantly.

Otabek glared at Victor, crossing his arms. "After you told Yuuri what you were planning. He swore me to secrecy, you swore me to secrecy. It was not may place to babysit the lot of you till you played nicely in the sandbox together."

Yuri wrinkled his nose and walked away from Otabek, effectively chastened, as only Otabek could do where he was concerned.

Heavy footfalls outside the door signaled that the enforcers would break them apart in seconds.

Otabek closed the distance between himself and Yuri in a heartbeat, and yet again, Yuri was almost crushed in a sudden hug.

"Give them hell in the Games, Yuri," he said quietly, cradling the back of Yuri's golden head.

"Just fucking watch me, you stubborn oaf," Yuri snarled, voice slightly muffled by Otabek's shirt.

The door opened with an ominous creak. Before either of them could protest, Victor pressed another kiss to first Yuuri's temple, then one to Yuri's. Yuri said goodbye by smacking Victor's shoulder and hissing.

Otabek and Victor walked out, but the door remained open. And then suddenly Yuuri knew Mari must not have stayed at home after all. A heartbeat, and she ran through the door and flung herself at Yuuri. He half-expected a slap, but instead she half-strangled him with a hug. He saw Yuri smirking at him from across the room, glad somebody else was getting hugged for now.

"You are the most stubborn little git of a brother," she ground out, metal studs in one ear digging into Yuuri's collarbone. "You pull this crap when I'm twenty, so I can't volunteer in your place. You just can't let things alone, can you?"

"No, Mari, I can't help it," Yuuri let all the hair in his lungs rush out in a sigh. "Please say I'm sorry to _kaa-san_ and papa?"

"I'll say you're sorry, but not sorry enough," she answered. She raised her head just high enough to whisper into his hear, so Yuri couldn't overhear. "And if your plan fails and you decide to sacrifice yourself for Yuri like the sap that you are, you make your death count for something, you hear me? And then wait for me in hell, we'll raise it together when I join you."

Yuuri flicked a lock of her short hair. "You're nasty, and I love you. So I'll win and come back so _kaa-san_ and papa have someone to atone for your sins."

Mari boxed his ears. "I''ll hold you to that." She released Yuuri and threw a wink at Yuri, who was pacing irritably across the room. "Stay sassy, tiger cub."

Then she walked through the doorway, nearly tripping on the frock she almost never wore. And the door creaked closed, and Yuuri could feel his heart trying to claw out of his chest and follow her and Victor and Otabek home.

His fingers pressed against the wraps of cloth beneath his shirt, binding bits of alfalfa to his skin. The clippings were supposed to help with homesickness, and they were already failing before he'd even left Sector 7.

A scraping sound jerked him away from his scattering thoughts, and he looked up to spy Yuri sitting backwards in the lone chair, arms crossed over the boxy back. "Congratulations, dumbass," he muttered.

"Pardon?" Yuuri asked.

Yuri sat up straight and spread his arms in an ironic gesture of grandeur. "Look at what you've done. You made Victor cry. You made Victor swear. You made Victor beg. All in the same moment. First person with that honor."

"Victor was begging and swearing back there at the reaping?" Yuuri felt like he needed to kick Yuri out of the chair and sit down himself.

"Well, yeah, didn't you hear him?"

"No."

Yuri wrinkled his nose again. "You're pathetic. You better work your fucking ass off when they put us through training, Katsudon. You're in Victor's shoes, now that you've stolen them."

Yuuri cracked his knuckles in an effort to seem confident. "I'll do my best to make Sector 7 proud."

Footsteps clunked outside the door again. Yuuri and Yuri waited, confused, since there was no one else able to visit. Yuuri's parents were working to keep food in the mouths of the local orphans, and Yuri's grandfather was housebound due to back issues.

A scrap of folded paper slipped under the door. Yuuri stepped forward and snatched it up.

"Just a few more minutes and we'll be on our way, boys." Even the door couldn't muffle the sing-song quality to Anya's voice.

Yuri slipped out of the chair and stomped over to Yuuri to read the note over his shoulder as Yuuri unfolded the note with _Yuri Plisetsky_ printed across the outside. On the inside, the ink script was so tiny, both boys had to learn closer and squint to read.

 _I'm your go-between with Chulanont and Popovich. Chulanont approves your lineup change. Popovich warns the bastards have been busy. Wait for more news later._

Yuri drew in a shaky breath, then tried to hide how the note affected him by blowing his bangs out of his face. "What, are we passing notes in school now?"

Yuuri rolled up and swallowed the note without so much as blinking. "We're doing whatever it takes."

“Feels like we're about to jump off a cliff together,” said Yuri, crossing his arms and huffing.

Yuuri sighed. “I know you think my idea is dumb,” he said. “But you're going to have to make the best of it. No tantrums, please.”

Blue-green eyes mocked him. “Sucks to be you, I can multitask.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya and her assistants were dragging Yuri away from him. Victor just watched from a few feet away with a dull, glassy look in his eyes. Yuuri didn't know which bothered him more, Victor's forced apathy, or Yuri's fury and invective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy day after YOI's 1 year anniversary! How many of you rewatched the first episode in celebration?
> 
> Just to clarify:  
> 1\. This is a very loose Hunger Games AU. Some changes are willy-nilly, and some are more carefully planned.  
> 2\. Endgame romantic pairing is Yuuri/Yuri. Mostly just establishing feelings, since they're just kiddos. If you want Victuuri, I recommend MartyMuse's historical AU instead.  
> 3\. HUGE thank you to the commenters who pointed out how traumatized Victor must be. I planned some glimpses into Victor's trauma, but you got me to rethink and expand and deepen it. Yet another thing I love about reading/writing fanfiction. Constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> Rundown of Sectors and their tributes and liaisons:
> 
> Leo de Inglesia & Jean-Jacques Leroy – Sector 1. Liaison: Emil Nekola.  
> Michele Crispino & Sara Crispino – Sector 2. Liaison: Lilia.  
> Guang-Hong Ji & Seung-Gil Lee – Sector 3. Liaison: Minako.  
> Georgi Popovich & Mila Babicheva – Sector 4. Liaison: Yakov.  
> Christophe Giacometti & Phichit Chulanont – Sector 5. Liaison: Celestino.  
> Minami Kenjiro & Takeshi Nishigori – Sector 6. Liaison: Yuuko.  
> Yuri Plisetsky & Yuuri Katsuki – Sector 7. Liaison: Victor.
> 
> Mood music:
> 
>  
> 
> [Starlight - Muse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pgum6OT_VH8)  
> [Run for Cover - The Killers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uC1vjuK4ODM)  
> [Enemies - Shinedown](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OoHGZFyMCHU)
> 
>  
> 
> Unbeta'd. Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games (Suzanne Collins rocks) or Yuri!!! on Ice. Just my anxiety.

Yuuri sat up, straight and rigid as a flagpole. The velvet plush of the luxury train seat was too soft, making Yuuri feel trapped, somehow. But he had vowed to do whatever he could. Dirt on his trousers rubbing off onto everything on the train was the least of his worries.

His chief worry was sprawled out beside him, legs dangling off the edge of the seat, as if wishing for passersby to trip. A cord of hemp curled over and under swift fingers, as Yuri ignored everything around him to practice the knots Victor had taught him. _So much for multitasking_ , Yuuri thought.

To atone for him, Yuuri was hanging upon every word from Anya's lips. She sat opposite them and went over their itinerary in between sips of herbal tea. She seemed to punctuate her words by tapping a nail against a stack of fashion magazines to her right. There were so many phrases he didn't know, despite reading every scrap of book, article, or pamphlet Victor collected and lent out to whoever asked.

_A gazebo is a porch without a house, right? Does brunch served at 11 mean we have to skip breakfast? Or is it like a second breakfast? And what's lucerne, is it a drink or a musical piece?_

But he was too shy to voice any of his questions aloud. His stomach was not shy about growling, so he tried to nibble on a snickerdoodle here and there. Yuri grabbed handfuls of everything within reach and kept his face stuffed. Yuuri knew he overate when anxious, so he tried to make himself eat slowly and savor every bite.

Anya wrapped up her speech with a nod to a bundle resting on an empty seat in the corner of the box car and an apology.

“What have you to be sorry for?” Yuri asked.

Yuuri nearly jumped in surprise, then felt foolish for being so skittish. That was precisely why Victor and Yuri had excluded him before.

Anya smirked at Yuri's pout over the gilded rim of her china teacup. “I'd rather educate you on Capitol etiquette today. But . . .” She tilted her head in the direction of another corner of the box car. Yuuri followed her gaze, then turned round again as soon as he spied a camera. The hair on the back of his neck rose as he considered the car might be bugged as well.

No wonder Anya hadn't said anything about the note from earlier that day. Yuuri was grateful that Yuri was too surly to ask her . . . yet. His question about her apology were the first words he'd uttered since they boarded the train. 

What if the room where we said our goodbyes was bugged? Yuuri could swear his heart hit the roof of his mouth. He had to clench his fists to keep from clambering over Yuri and pacing the length of the car.

Anya went on, “I wasn't just assigned to handle your PR. I'm also your fashion designer and stylist. And me and my team—sorry, my team and I—have just two days before your debut on Morooka's television program.” She offered to pour more chai tea for Yuuri, and Yuuri nodded gratefully. He drained it, then put the teacup down, afraid to drop and break an expensive piece.

Yuri dropped the hemp and poured himself some peppermint before Anya could ask. Anya ignored him in favor of checking both entrances to the box car. “Does Victor usually take time to join groups, do you know?”

“Depends on the group,” said Yuri, between slurps.

“Victor . . .” Yuuri cleared his throat, weighing his thoughts. “Victor naps a lot. Drinks a lot. Especially during the day.”

“Especially vodka. No smell. Easier to hide from kids always visiting him and Makkachin,” Yuri added.

“He entertains a lot, does he?” said Anya, voice taking on a curious lilt as she leaned her chin on an upturned palm.

“Beats me why his psychologist ordered feeding and reading to snot-nosed brats as therapy, but there you have it,” said Yuri, twirling hemp around his thumbs.

Yuuri swiped a cookie from Yuri's plate, observing, “Especially a snot-nosed brat like yourself.”

“Brat? Yeah, okay I am, but snot-nosed I am not!” Yuri hooked the hemp around Yuuri's wrist, jerking the cookie back toward him and eating the morsel from Yuuri's hand. Yuuri wriggled away and stuck out his tongue.

“Sorry to leave you babysitting the children all alone.” Yuuri looked up to see Victor standing on unsteady legs beside them. His short hair was rumpled, his suspenders dangling behind him like he was inspired by Anya's cape. His shirt hung inside out and lopsided over one shoulder.

He, too, filched a cookie from Yuri's plate, tucking it between his teeth and coolly seizing Yuri's ankles before he could kick him.

Anya poured Victor a cup of tea. “Not at all, helps keep me from missing my cousins back in the Capitol,” she said. She waited to hand over the teacup until after Victor had wrangled to sit down on the edge of the seat. Yuri found himself sandwiched, head against Yuuri's shoulder and legs across Victor's knees. Growling, he sat up straight, like a toddler scolded for disturbing the grownups. Yuuri just smirked at him.

“I'm glad you're here now,” Anya continued, folding her hands primly.

Victor winked. “Happy to serve.”

Yuri didn't even try to quiet his gagging noises.

Anya went on without batting an eye at either of their antics. “You know these boys better than I, Victor, and you have a good eye. What look should we go for with each of them for their introduction?”

“Angel for Katsuki, devil for Plisetsky,” Victor deadpanned.

Yuri threw two thumbs up in the air, then went back to practicing something that looked like a hangman's noose.

“I was thinking about the stars,” said Yuuri, ignoring Victor's comment and shyly pushing a chocolate Anya's way. Anya accepted with a smile, nodding at him to go on. “I've never worn black, and I've never had anything”—he gestured vaguely at the earrings sparkling and rippling like a waterfall from her ears—“that looks like starlight like that. So, I'd like something that makes me think of stars in the night sky?”

“You shall have it,” said Anya, smile widening. “We'll add just a touch of red, too, as tribute to one time Victor wore a red suit lit on fire. It'll bring out that russet in your eyes.”

She was much warmer than he'd anticipated. Most people put Yuuri on edge without trying, as he startled at every motion, every expression that he hadn't memorized from seeing a thousand times. It was hard to steep in a presence he couldn't read or mold to his own. 

The only people who didn't make him want to jump out of his own skin at every given moment were his family, and Victor, and Yuri. (Yuri only made him want to shed his skin about twice a day now.)

“Hellfire will do fine for my costume, thanks,” said Yuri, bunching up his legs till his knees touched his chin, then unfurling them on top of the table.

“Yuri, your clothes are not so much a concern as your manners,” said Victor, putting a hand over his heart and sighing in despair. “Everyone will like Yuuri the second they see him. But you, young man? You gotta start laying on the charm if you want to win any sponsors. My tongue is as silver as my hair, but even I can only do so much.”

“If you want me to be cute,” Yuri snapped. “You'll have to dress me in diapers and a baby frock and stick a pacifier in my mouth.”

“Careful with the mahogany,” said Anya quietly, glaring at the ratty shoes threatening to scuff the tabletop.

“Mahoga what now?” Yuri challenged. Yuuri glared at him.

“Let me rephrase,” said Anya. “Careful with _the fucking mahogany_.” And her teacup jostled just enough to spill a little of the hot liquid on the leg of Yuri's trousers, without a drop reaching the table.

Yuri grinned at her. “You're not as prissy as I took you for.” He retracted his legs, to Yuuri's relief.

“You're just as difficult as I took you for,” Anya answered. “But I think you'll look splendid in a silver that matches Victor's hair.”

“And my tongue,” said Victor, smirking and making puppy eyes at Anya like he just said something witty.

Yuuri grimaced and resisted the urge to smack his head against the table, then apologize to the mahogany.

Yuri rolled his eyes so hard, he probably saw all his forgotten memories flash before him. “Fucking hell, Nikiforov, stop flirting with everything that moves for two goddamn seconds.”

Victor smiled blandly. “That was undeserved, Plisetsky,” he chided in a cooing tone. “You're the most fidgety person I know, and I haven't flirted with you even once.”

Yuuri's resolve failed him, and he let his forehead fall to the table with a smack. A thunk next to him signaled that Yuri had probably followed suit.

When Yuuri raised his head again, Anya daintily gulped down the last of her tea and set the teacup aside. “Right, now I'll just need to gauge your measurements, boys, and make some magic with my team!”

In the corner of his eye, Yuuri saw Victor pouting at how the other three had agreed to summarily ignore him.

* * *

The first night on the train scared Yuuri almost more than the thought of the Game itself. Victor once said he hated the train rides, and Yuuri had firm opinions on why. He wheedled Anya into letting Victor have sleeping quarters in between his and Yuri's, pretending that he was a fitful sleeper and that Yuri sleepwalked. Anya hadn't pressed the issue.

The lights in every boxcar seemed to grow more eerie and menacing the longer the sun stayed down and the moon lumbered across the night sky.

Yuuri quietly paced the length of his own quarters until 2 am, waiting for a joke-laced summons that meant Victor had caved to Yuuri's request to keep watch, or at least fall asleep to Yuri scolding him. But Victor never sent for them. Then Yuuri collapsed on his bed, forbidding himself to sleep.

But his body must have betrayed his mind. He found himself jerking awake, forehead nearly colliding with the alarm clock reading 0300 hours. Screaming seemed to pound against the wall, like the sound itself wanted to escape from whatever was causing it.

In a haze of sleep, Yuuri couldn't tell what the noise was or what direction it was coming from. For a second he was frozen, some wild fear snaking through his consciousness. Maybe the Capitol had decided staging an elaborate arena Game was too expensive, and was coming for them on the train instead.

Then he heard another voice, and remembered the last time he had heard two voices: volunteering for Victor less than twenty-four hours before. His faculties snapped to clarity. He recognized the first voice as Victor's, and the second as Yuri's.

He was flying down the hall and bursting through Victor's half-open door.

Anya and two of her assistants were standing in groggy concern by Victor's bed. Yuri was sitting on Victor's arms to keep them down. Yuri traced his fingers in the shape of a heart, from the bridge of Victor's nose, over his brows, then down along his jawline to meet his chin. Over and over.

This was the their signal to snap Victor out of traumatic dreams or flashbacks, and reassure him they were not his enemy. Yuuri's mother had done that to Yuuri to calm him as a child. It worked even better on Victor the first time Yuuri had tried it. It was the only thing that worked when Victor was dreaming about the moment he regretted most, out of all the Games.

Yuri murmured soft but griping assurances that Victor was safe, telling him Yuri was there and it was time to fucking chill.

Victor's screams were already dying down.

Yuuri wanted to smack Victor for refusing their offers to keep watch over him. He also wanted to ask when Victor had taught Yuri to pin anyone bigger than him down like they were deadweight. He had been trying to forget about their training session earlier that day. The force of just how dangerous Yuri was now hit him all the harder.

Shoving aside his own distress, he vaulted across the room and clambered onto the bed. He moved Victor's head from the squashed pillows to lay across his thighs. His fingers replaced Yuri's in trailing a heart along Victor's features. Victor's tears soaked into Yuuri's pajama bottoms, but he stopped screaming and stopped thrashing his head. His face was still twisted in a grimace of pain.

Yuri kept Victor pinned, not trusting him to do no harm just yet, instead raking his nails across Victor's hands and forearms in imitation of Makkachin's claws.

 _Makkachin_ . . . Yuuri snapped his head up to look Yuri dead in the eye. “Where's Makkachin?” he asked.

Yuri didn't answer, still murmuring to Victor like he didn't want to explain. He didn't have to. Yuuri knew that Victor must have stubbornly allowed Makkachin to be kept in a crate elsewhere, like a Capitol pet, to keep up appearances that she wasn't a therapy dog. _Damn appearances._

Victor's brow uncreased, his lips relaxed, and he opened his eyes to look up at Yuuri. His already misty eyes seemed to take on a distanced, disappointed look. Or maybe it was just the dim light.

“You shouldn't have come,” he said. “Neither of you. I — I can't — this looks bad — ”

“Our reputations will be fine, dumbass,” said Yuri.

“No,” said Victor. “As far as the Capitol's concerned, there's only one reason a legal adult would have underage minors in his room — ”

“I don't care what the Capitol thinks, let them,” Yuri snarled. “Now promise me you'll keep Makkachin with you from now on. She can be with you when we're in the arena. We can't.”

Victor began, “Don't remind — ”

“I'll remind you as often as I please,” said Yuri. “This can't happen again, Victor.”

More tears slipped down past Victor's cheekbones. After a moment, he nodded in resignation, mumbling about Yuri being an insufferable brat.

One of the assistants reappeared, Makkachin in tow. (Yuuri realized with a start he hadn't noticed her leaving.)

Yuri finally shift over to perch beside Victor. Makkachin bounded up onto the bed and peppered Victor's face with kisses. Victor latched onto Makkachin. Another assistant appeared with water, and wafers, and sleeping pills. Yuri waved off the sleeping pills, grumbling about Victor's drinking habits, but passed on the water and wafers. The assistants shuffled off to bed, but Anya stayed, quietly hovering by the door.

When Victor finally dozed off again, head still on Yuuri's lap, she stepped forward and spoke quietly. “I know this is deeply personal, and is none of my business,” Anya began.

“No damn kidding!” Yuri hissed, fingers digging into the sheet. “You're nice for checking on him, but he's sleeping now, so fuck off.”

Yuuri reached over and smacked Yuri upside the head. Yuri looked at him with something akin to betrayal.

Anya went on as if Yuri hadn't spoken. “I'm going to have to make it my business. I'm going to stay on with Victor while you two are competing in the Games. I need to know what I'm dealing with. Maybe I can help. Maybe I just need to know how to _not_ make this worse.”

Yuuri heaved a sigh he had been holding in unawares. “Victor has had nightmares on and off since his first competition in the Game,” he said, shoulders slumping. “All the victors struggle with it, but . . . he's had to kill at least two people with his own hands against his own wishes, each year, for half a decade.”

Yuuri started fiddling with Makkachin's collar to give his fingers something to do.

“He's good at hiding it during each reaping,” Yuuri went on, “During the Games themselves. During the events that follow after he wins. During the random interviews ever few months back at home. For a bit, he can be strong for the people who look up to him.

“But during everyday life? He can't get out of bed unless he promised to do something with the local kids. Or sneak into the forest and hunt game to give to my parents for the orphans. Or to bring hides to Yuri's grandfather for him to cure and sell. Every two weeks or so, we give him a day off, where he doesn't have to be anything for anybody, do anything for anybody.”

“What does he do? Stay in bed like this?” Anya asked.

Yuuri nodded.

“Just like this. Head glued to Katsudon's lap,” said Yuri. His tone sounded derisive, but at this point even Anya knew it was an empty front to hide how it cut him up inside. “All fucking day. He cries. He drinks. He tells short, goofy stories and then says nothing for hours. He cries. He has us read aloud scraps of books from before Sarcon's birth. He cries.”

Anya shot a wordless question Yuuri's way with one raised brow. It was similar to the look his mother gave him the only time she witnessed one of Victor's nightmares, and how Yuuri calmed him. He wished it was darker so that he could pretend he couldn't see her expression. “You heard what he was worried about earlier,” Yuuri said. “He puts his head on my lap, nothing more. And I'm okay with it.”

Anya nodded, but she pursed her lips. “So you're not going to mention his obvious interest in you? That's not something to be ignored, even if you're all as young as you are.”

Yuuri had told himself he was done with denial. But when Anya put things in words like that, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. So much for his resolve. “Um, well . . . not yet?” he said. 

Yuuri had reasons for not talking, much less thinking, about what Victor's actions toward him could mean. Many reasons. Good reasons. Thinking or talking about Victor's affection meant thinking or talking about how Yuuri felt. And Yuuri didn't know what he felt about Victor.

He couldn't define it, until he defined how he felt when Yuri rolled his eyes at Victor “being a damn pathetic sap,” as Yuri called it. Or when Yuri got mad at Yuuri. Or when Yuri did _anything_.

He had no intention of sorting _that_ out just yet. Right now, he just needed to focus on staying alive.

Anya's eyes narrowed at his answer. “Some people may chalk up his reaction at the reaping as concern, Yuuri,” she went on. “But I know better. Others will, too. I understand, it's hard. I was a teenager, too. But can you guys do what you need to do with this . . . unspoken thing hanging over you?”

Yuuri could hear Yuri gritting his teeth. “Victor sees the eyes of the dead and dried blood everywhere,” Yuri spat quietly. “Every-fucking-where. He can deal with a crush on Katsudon, without making an ass of himself and endangering our cause.”

Anya didn't look totally convinced, but she nodded. Yuuri realized she was the first person from the Capitol to treat them with respect. It was a foreign concept.

Anya looked to Yuuri. “Why does he call you Katsudon?”

“ _Katsudon_ is one of the dishes my grandparents preserved through Sarcon's birth and passed down,” said Yuuri. “I've only had the _real_ thing once, since _kaa-san_ has to sell most of our eggs to Capitol grocers, and pigs are almost never butchered here.”

“What's it taste like?” Anya asked.

Yuuri chuckled. “Like home.”

“Hmmm,” said Anya, looking to Yuri.

“You got anything else to say?” Yuri griped. Yuuri had no idea why he was still so touchy. Perhaps he was mad other people saw him the only time he outright showed his concern.

“Good night,” said Anya.

* * *

Yuuri tugged on his red tie and practiced smiling in the reflection of the chrome surface of a vase. Between the sparring sessions with Victor and the etiquette lessons with Anya during suit fittings, he felt his head would explode. Far too soon, they had arrived at the outskirts of the Capitol itself. The two day train ride had gone by in the space of two heartbeats, or so it seemed to him. Tracking time was never a strong suit of Yuuri's.

He hadn't the energy to smile tonight. Not genuinely, anyway.

“Spacing out again, Katsudon?”

Yuuri turned and saw Yuri adjusting his cuffs behind him. Yuri's silver jacket and slacks were cut in simple and clean lines, but the vest was a web of gleaming threads and glittering green and blue jewels.

“Yes,” Yuuri answered. “You'll have to ring for a number in space to speak to me, going forward.”

“And somebody else is ringing that number right now,” said Anya, leaning in through the open door of the den. At least, the room seemed like a den to Yuuri. If dens were filled with vases and couches and empty picture frames. Anya glowed yellow and bright against the sleek grey and silver and chrome around her.

Yuri started.

“What, you didn't hear her open the door earlier?” Yuuri asked. He clicked his tongue at the blonde boy. “Never tease me again, you've lost your cred.” He turned to Anya. “Who wants to see me?”

“Beats me,” said Anya, shrugging. “I'm just the messenger with a vague summons with Cao Bin's name on it.”

Yuuri followed her through the door, gait stiff and unsure thanks to the rigid posture his fitted black suit demanded.

“Hopefully a couple laps 'round this place will break that in for you,” said Anya, patting his shoulder. “I try to make all my pieces comfortable from the get-go. But there's always a little elusive bite.”

Passing through another hall, Yuuri caught a glimpse of a couple other tributes. Was that Phichit, big smile over red and gold splendor? And Chris slouching in something flimsy, red, and black?

“I didn't want to say this with the other Yuri there,” said Anya, “but while it's Gamemaster Cao Bin who summoned you, I think it's Figarello you're gonna deal with.” Her hand on his arm was the only thing that stopped Yuuri from tripping and smooching marble floor.

“What must I do?” he asked, searching Anya's eyes frantically.

“Act like a scared kid who cares about his friends,” said Anya. “Everybody dismisses little boys and little girls.”

A handful of steps later, she stopped dead in her tracks by another vase. It seemed identical to the one in the room they had left. Yuuri blinked, feeling dizzy and betrayed by surroundings that felt oddly . . . unreal. Even the shadows felt unsteady and treacherous. If the interior decorator wanted you to feel like you were traipsing through the hallway to hell, they did a bangup job of it.

Numb autopilot took over his limbs, and he reached out to open the door by his elbow and get this ordeal started. Anya cleared her throat and inclined her head further up the hall. Yuuri shook off the mental fog and followed the gesture, freezing when he saw Figarello, High Chancellor of Sarcon himself, pacing absently in circles. He was even deeper in his own little world than Yuuri had been a moment before.

They waited, Yuuri counting to thirty in his head before Figarello noticed, stopped pacing, and beckoned for him. He reluctantly left Anya behind.

“Good afternoon, young Yuuri,” said Figarello. His drab brown and grey suit seemed ready to bleed out into the grey shadows. He waited until Yuuri made it to his side and surrendered his hand for a friendly shake before continuing. “Politicians tend to talk longer than Rip Van Winkle could sleep. But I promise I won't keep you long. ”

What he was actually saying didn't register in Yuuri's mind at first. He was overwhelmed with the lack of grandeur about the most infamous man in Sarcon. Powerful men were supposed to awe you, inspire you, strike you. Figarello looked like any middle-aged slob who could swipe a suit and con a crisp haircut. Nobody would think twice about him. 

Figarello's voice was warm and disarming, and for a moment, Yuuri somehow felt that, disturbing shadows and all, this hall was suddenly his home away from home.

The only thing that anchored him was a memory. This man had the power to stop the Games five years running, and five years running this man made Victor choose victory or death. 

Yuuri blinked, and tried very hard not to let his loathing show in his eyes. He felt as if permanent nausea had settled in his stomach, bile threatening to claw up his throat.

Figarello laughed softly. “I'm sorry, the reference to classic literature must have confused you. I tend to forget how much is forgotten. Rip Van Winkle is forever sleeping in the public mind, I guess.”

Yuuri bit his tongue to keep from quoting Victor's favorite scrap from Washington Irving's short story.

Figarello shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I just want you to know that I intended Victor to become unhinged and self-destruct in this 60th Game,” he said. His voice only seemed to grow more warm and familiar with every word, as if he were talking happily about his own son. Gooseflesh raised on Yuuri's arms. This man made nightmares seem kind—at least they were upfront about being nightmares.

Figarello paused to sneeze and sniff, then went on, “The only reason I didn't have Miss Anya waive your bid as volunteer and call Victor to the podium is this: you have fair potential to disappoint. People wanted Victor, they got . . . just you instead.

“And time is a generous thing, Victor could still self-destruct any time this week. You and the other Yuri are his crutches, are you not?” Figarello's eyes crinkled at him, like he and Yuuri were sharing secrets that would change the world and make it a brighter place. Yuuri's nausea only deepened.

“How did you know that?” Yuuri breathed, gulping. “Enforcers don't dog the steps of the winners in Sector 7. Not like in other Sectors.”

“I don't need Enforcers when children who need a meal are around,” said Figarello, smiling blandly. “They tell me more than I need, even, and then I find a use for it.”

Yuuri's temples throbbed. _What could I say that would sound childish to Figarello?_ he thought. He had to stop his fingers from tapping over the spot where alfalfa was hidden in strips underneath the dress shirt. “You are wrong. Victor's stronger than you think,” Yuuri said aloud, letting his voice turn plaintive. “No matter what, he'll never disappoint.”

Figarello smiled again and patted Yuuri's shoulder. “You will find you put too much faith in just one person,” he said. “Farewell, young one.”

And he walked away, leaving Yuuri to look around in confusion until he spotted Anya, book in hand, standing by the molding along an open door. He walked over to her, and she was about to escort him away. Then they saw Cao Bin himself leading Victor, suited in black with a purple sheen, over to Figarello. 

Figarello shook Victor's hand as if they were old friends, not breaking stride once. Victor reluctantly fell in step in between Figarello and Cao Bin, as if they were moving gargoyles hedging him in.

Yuuri could see Victor trembling. He knew by the way Victor's shoulders were set, by the flex of his fingers, that Victor was curbing his temper, quashing the mental image of breaking Figarello's jaw, or maybe his spine.

Then Cao Bin excused himself. Yuuri's jaw dropped. Only Figarello would be so bold to talk to Victor Nikiforov without a single bodyguard or witness present. They walked on, Victor tense with a clipped gait, Figarello casual and loping. Even though Victor towered over him. 

Just as they were about to wind past a corner and fall out of sight, Figarello patted Victor's shoulder, and Victor stopped short. Figarello went on without Victor, waving farewell and calling out something loudly enough for Yuuri and Anya to overhear.

“Don't have too much fun seducing all the sponsors, Victor. Leave a bit of sport to the rest of the liaisons.”

Yuuri's entire face felt like it was on fire. His nails dug into his palms. He'd probably look as red as a beet throughout his upcoming interview. 

Yuuri felt Anya gripping his shoulder like a vice. It anchored him, in an oddly comforting way. She'd only known them a short time, and already she was more than a player in their court. She had molded herself into family.

“Let's go,” said Anya. “Before Victor realizes we heard that.” But her heels stayed rooted to the carpet. Yuuri led her away.

* * *

Yuuri had expected each tribute interview to feel like it dragged on for a year. He was shocked to watch boys and girls whizzing by from the alcoves. He bit his lip, trying to curb disappointment that the tributes weren’t pooled together to wait. He had counted on passing notes to Phichit, Chris, and Takeshi in person.

Now he’d be banking on Anya getting to notes to their stylists instead. Anya was capable, and so were Yuuko and Celestino—but the risk factors increased with more distance, more time, more people involved.

Yuuri watched each interview with his hands steepled before his mouth and nose, squinting at the large screen taking up half the wall of the Sector 7 alcove. He guessed right that Phichit would be most charming, Chris most outrageous, Georgi most dramatic, and Seung-Gil most deadpan. 

But he was impressed with how Sara and Mila won the audience over before they even spoke a full sentence. _Why did Victor think people would like me again?_ he wondered. 

JJ was incredibly loud and exuberant. And Minami, the wild card that no one had seen coming, made quite a few members of the audience tear up at the thought of someone so small and adorable fighting for his life. The kind hearts in the audience cried even harder watching shy, gentle Guang-Hong hiccuping through his answers. 

Yuuri hoped that Minami would cooperate, once his liaison briefed him. Everyone else already knew Yuuri’s goal and were fully invested, with their liaisons doing most of the planning. 

Yuri could certainly get the audience to coo over him, too, if he tried. But there was no way he would try to woo anybody's good opinion.

Sector 7 interviews were saved for the very last, to Yuuri’s dismay. His anxiety snowballed till he was trembling like a flag hanging from a pole by a thread. Yuri’s name was called first, just as it had at the reaping. He stalked out onto the stage and gripped Morooka’s hand like it was a lemon to be juiced.

“Good grip there, son,” said Morooka, laughing. Blue glitter pooled in his laughter lines, mirroring the glitter in his hair. His neon blue suit seemed to pull all the energy in the room his way. Yuuri could see it, even through the television screen. Morooka extricated his hand from Yuri, and only sat down after Yuri awkwardly plopped into his own chair. “So, young Master Yuri Plisetsky,” Morooka went on, “am I correct in assuming that you're not thrilled to be here?”

“Correct,” Yuri granted him. “Why would I be thrilled about this? If I was, I'd be no use under pressure in a Game.”

 _Well, by your standards, I'll be worse than useless when it counts,_ Yuuri thought. But he was determined to be relentless and prove, first to Victor, then to Yuri, that he could deliver once he made up his mind.

Morooka laughed again, and with a start, Yuuri realized why Yuri was even more irritable than usual, if that were possible. Last minute, in between leaving the alcove and assaulting the stage, Anya had shadowed the corners and edges of his eyes and glossed his lips and fingers. What threats she employed, Yuuri couldn't fathom. 

Now Yuri looked even more like some elf or waif who wandered out of someone's imagination.

“You're definitely not a shy boy,” said Morooka. “But you are one of our youngest. Fifteen, am I right? Only Minami and Guang-Hong, at thirteen, are your junior. Do you feel you need to be tougher or fiercer, to make the older tributes pause?”

Yuri scoffed. “I am what I am. Makes no difference to me what they think. They're all going down, anyway.”

“You may be a grump, but I like your spirit! Do you not agree, folks?” Morook waved in excitement at the audience.

Morooka kept expanding on the fierce theme, to Yuuri's gratitude, and actually won Yuri some sympathy that the boy clearly didn't want. Yuuri missed a few of their words because he had to duck out of the alcove and wander to the back of the stage. As he took deep breaths while waiting for his turn, he realized he hadn't said one word to Victor throughout all the interviews. _Was Victor even in the alcove with us?_ he wondered.

Yuri vacated the stage as soon as Morooka allowed. As Yuuri passed him to take his place, the blond whispered, “Don't fuck up, Katsudon.”

“I won't mangle Morooka's hand. I'll be fine,” Yuuri whispered back.

Morooka's smile was warm as he all-but rocketed out of his plush chair. Yuuri crossed the stage with the care of a deer sneaking into a private garden. The lights seemed to glare at him from all angles, as if someone had stolen highbeams from a Capitol train and then fired them up in a hall of mirrors. He half expected to blink and see warped versions of himself all around him.

He was grateful that Morooka took his palm in a welcoming handshake and drew him in like a fisherman with a reel. Subtly maneuvering his hand, Yuuri found the chair meant for tributes and sat down. It was too soft, but it was still an anchor, and he took comfort in that stability as his eyes finally adjusted to the piercing lights.

Morooka's exuberance was another thing. “Young Master Katsuki, I am very good at remaining impartial—but you are stretching that ability to its limits!” And Morooka thumped the arms of his chair for emphasis. “Your volunteering for Victor Nikiforov was easily the most surprising thing I've ever seen. I'm sure many here would agree.” He nodded to the audience, who cheered an enthusiastic assent.

Yuuri stared out at the sea of faces, petrified, waiting for them to boo him and demand Victor in his place.

“We're dying to know, Yuuri, what was going through your mind when you volunteered for Victor? It was harder to read you than, er, the reactions of those around you.” Morooka seemed to be good at understatements, too.

Yuuri took a steadying breath. He couldn't use Victor's injury as an excuse to cover his true reasons—that would make Victor look vulnerable. “I, I just thought he had proven himself time and again, and he didn't need to anymore? Five times is a feat.”

Morooka grinned gleefully. “And so you thought it time someone else had a chance to win?” He winked at the audience, and everyone erupted into laughter. As if Yuuri had dissed Victor the way Capitol celebrities sometimes dissed each other for entertainment and attention.

Yuuri felt his entire face heating up, as if he was sitting in a steam-clouded sauna. “N-not especially,” he said quickly, hands fluttering about before he could stop himself. “He's just paid more than his due, is all.”

“Well, young Yuuri,” said Morooka, looking oddly delighted at Yuuri shutting down his gentle digs at Victor in front of an audience. “I'm sure we're all looking forward to watching you pay your dues in dramatic fashion. And speaking of dramatic, Victor Nikiforov was not the only one with a strong reaction to your bid to volunteer. 

“Your teammate, also named Yuri. Have you two called a truce yet? Or has he intimidated you as well?”

Yuuri had no idea how to answer such a question. “We weren't ever at war, so . . . no truce needed,” he babbled. 

Morooka's head slanted curiously to the side. “I'm sensing a story here, are you two close? I believe footage showed you both standing next to Nikiforov beforehand.”

Yuuri nodded. “We've known each other pretty much since we were babies.”

Morooka spoke slowly, thoughtfully, words spilling like coffee dripping through a filter. “It may just be my imagination, but one camera angle captured Victor covering your mouth when Yuri Plisetsky was announced. Did you intend to volunteer in his place originally?”

Yuuri felt all the blood draining from his face. Morooka's eyes were warm and kind, but he still felt terrified. How could he make his actions look less planned, more spur-of-the-moment? How could he hold to the theme of a scared kid worried for his friends?

“Well, no, I didn't think his name would be drawn at all,” he said awkwardly. This much was true. “I couldn't bear the thought of him having to leave his grandpa.”

“He cares a lot about his grandpa?” Morooka prompted.

“Yes, very much,” said Yuuri, smiling. _I have it. I'll talk up how much Yuri loves his_ dedushka _. And that will help the audience like him more._ “Yuri's grandpa makes the best pirozhki in Sarcon.”

“That is a bold claim!” said Morooka, laughing, and on cue, and the audience laughed with him. “Can you personally vouch for it? Have you tried it?”

“Yes, whenever there were leftovers, Yuri would bring them, grumbling because his _dedushka_ insisted. Sometimes I think there never really _were_ any leftovers, and he just wanted Yuri to make friends.”

Morooka explained that _dedushka_ meant grandfather to the confused audience, then kept encouraging Yuuri to talk. Before Yuuri knew it, stories unfurled in miniature. 

The time they pulled a prank on Victor by hiding his favorite pajamas, only to be foiled by Makkachin. How a girl with a crush on Yuri called him cutie and teased him, just to make him mad. And Yuri would start running away whenever he saw her. The time Victor scared Yuuri with a sheet over his head, and then both Yuuri and Yuri challenged him to a pillow fight.

How Yuuri and Yuri tried to plot out the old constellations in the sky, and it devolved into an argument about whether Orion actually had a belt or not.

“You talk a lot about your namesake,” said Morooka, with a sly look.

Yuuri froze a little, scared that Morooka had guessed his strategy to make Yuri endearing, and worried he was blushing.

“You wouldn't happen to have a crush on him, would you?” Morooka chanted in some tune Yuuri didn't know.

It took a minute of frantically biting his lip and gripping the arms of the chair for dear life, before Yuuri realized that Morooka was only teasing. And all he had to do was laugh, or play along with the joke for the audience to smirk and dismiss.

But by then, his face was on fire and his speech had deserted him. _Ye gods,_ he thought. _Morooka's right. I've been ranting and raving about him on television. I'm doomed._

The audience hooted and crowed. Yuuri wasn't very relieved that they seemed taken by a crush unrequited.

Morooka's kind eyes looked stricken, and his smile softened. “Well, well, I guess that just further answers why you volunteered for Victor to stand beside your namesake,” he said.

If Yuri were beside him at that moment, he would have screamed _no shit, Sherlock_.

Morooka rose, and Yuuri imitated the gesture without thinking. Morooka captured his hand in a firm grip once more. 

_Wait, over already?_ Yuuri thought. _Is he just in a hurry to wrap up? Or is he taking pity on me?_

Yuuri remembered at the last second to squeeze back.

“Do you mind taking a turn all about, so we can admire your stylist's handiwork?” Morooka asked.

Yuuri turned dutifully around, lingering in a pose with his back to the audience. Appreciative gasps and murmurs met his back and crawled up his neck, as all behind him saw the glittering black, silver, and red jewels that made up a blazing ember on a mesh backdrop. Not a ember in its death throes, but an ember threatening to spread consuming flames to everything it touched.

His face was still burning.

He couldn't remember walking across stage. His awareness returned when he caught himself from stumbling over the steps leading offstage, and steeling himself for a human typhoon when he got back to the alcove.

He hadn't even reached the last step before somebody yanked his tie, dragged him over to the nearest wall, and started pummeling his chest and shoulders.

“You bastard!” Yuri's voice was louder, shriller than Yuuri had ever heard it before. Even when he was yelling at Victor to snap out of a memory. “How dare you! Games haven't even begun, and you go for sabotage?! You made me look weak!”

Anya and her assistants were dragging Yuri away from him. Victor just watched from a few feet away with a dull, glassy look in his eyes. Yuuri didn't know which bothered him more, Victor's forced apathy, or Yuri's fury and invective.

“Hey, hey, slow down,” Anya was scolding. “He didn't mean harm. He helped you, Yuri, do you hear me?”

“HE MADE ME LOOK WEAK!” Yuri shrieked, struggling against the hands gripping arms and shoulders. He glared around, as if daring them all to charge him with being hysterical.

“He made you look loyal and likable, despite your smart mouth,” snapped Anya, groaning in exasperation. “Now, what was it you mentioned earlier about not making an ass of yourself and endangering the cause? Come on, Yuri.”

Yuri only allowed himself to be led away after calling out, “Victor! I want to be trained separately from now on!”

Victor nodded, too hollow to offer any objections. “That will be for the best.” His blue eyes turned to Yuuri, and Yuuri wanted to shrivel up on himself and crawl beneath the steps behind him. Victor smiled like somebody was drawing away his lips like a curtain. It was worse than the way he bared his teeth at aggressors in his fifth and final Game when he was injured. He turned in the direction of the alcove.

“Come on, Yuuri.”

Yuuri shuffled after Victor. “Victor, I — ”

“Anya got word from Otabek,” Victor interrupted. Yuuri wasn't even sure if Victor heard him, he seemed to be reciting something memorized. “A new security detail landed in Sector 7 scarcely five hours after we left. The fence around the forests is being repaired. My house is under watch like it's a mecca for illicit drugs. Otabek thinks it's only a matter of time before they figure out why our irrigation systems are faulty and we water some corners of the fields by hand—”

“Victor!” Yuuri made a slashing motion across his throat, mouthing “bugs.”

Victor's crater of a smile was still plastered across his face. “It's alright, Yuuri. Anything Anya designs has jamming devices sewn in, apparently. She was kind enough to jam the room we said goodbye to Otabek, thankfully. So long as you don't scream, you are fine.” Without turning to look Yuuri fully in the eye, he took something from his pocket and looped his arm back to wave it at Yuuri.

A knife. Yuuri accepted it without a word.

“From Anya,” Victor explained, still forging ahead like it was his life's mission. Yuuri marveled that they hadn't reached Sector 7's alcove yet. “It also has a jamming device, but you have to turn it on and off manually.” Victor made a rasping noise, and it took a minute for Yuuri to realize that was a chuckle. “You picked very shrewd allies, Yuuri. So far, you've done a splendid job here. Good luck buttering Yuri up, though, he is going to be quite testy.”

“I'm not Otabek,” Yuuri shot back. He wanted to yell at Victor to stop with this strange game of denial, to voice the thoughts he was thinking. But a voice inside Yuuri's head was mocking him for the same refusal to talk earlier.

He cradled the slim, elegant knife in one palm, triggering the mechanism with his forefinger and watching it snap open. He thumbed the edge, satisfied in the shivers of danger that went up his spine. The blade was sharp enough to make him terrified of dropping it blade-first on his foot. It reminded him of the knife a tribute had used to tear a gash in Victor's calf. He still hadn't asked Victor what that felt like. The only leg injury Yuuri had to compare for pain was when he fell on ice at age five.

He snapped the blade shut again and pocketed it, grateful for the cool weight against his leg.

 _Well, so much for not fucking up,_ he thought. _Now the two people I need to help me survive this charade can't stand me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lot of politics and pride of heritage seeped in here because it's impossible to write dystopians without it. Trying to pace this chapter was hell, it kept dragging. We were supposed to be in the arena by now, but nooo. Yuuri had to keep on with SO MUCH internal monologuing. 
> 
> I don't like the result at all, but hey, I had to write or go mad. The Las Vegas shooting messed me up. I'm so sad and so angry. Hugs to everybody.
> 
> Anya talking about clothes was really fun to write. As was slipping in “second breakfast” to appease my inner Hobbit.
> 
> In District 7, alfalfa is never called lucerne, hence Yuuri's confusion. (I legit only realized lucerne = alfalfa when writing this fic. I feel ridiculous.)
> 
> Yuri using Katniss' you-made-me-look-weak line took this story by storm at the last second. Also, the girl teasing Yuri was based on a real-life experience.
> 
> I live for the mental image of our boys having pillow fights. Seriously considering changing this fic's name to Yuuri, the Boy with His Face on Fire.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes train, perform, parade, and then embark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legal age of majority, consent, drinking, and driving in Sarcon is 18. Only elite citizens attain voting rights at age 25.
> 
> Ages of the tributes and their liaisons:  
> Victor Nikiforov –19  
> Yuuri Katsuki – 16  
> Yuri Plisetsky –15  
> Emil Nekola – 20  
> Leo de Inglesia – 16  
> Jean-Jacques Leroy – 18  
> Lilia Baranovskaya – 42  
> Michele Crispino – 16  
> Sara Crispino – 16  
> Minako Okukawa – 40  
> Guang-Hong Ji – 13  
> Seung-Gil Lee – 16  
> Yakov Feltsman – 47  
> Georgi Popovich – 19  
> Mila Babicheva – 17  
> Celestino Cialdini – 39  
> Christophe Giacometti – 18  
> Phichit Chulanont – 15  
> Yuuko Nishigori – 19  
> Minami Kenjiro – 13  
> Takeshi Nishigori – 19
> 
> Preferred weapons of tributes:  
> Bow – Victor (not playing), Georgi, Guang-Hong  
> Longsword – JJ, Seung-Gil, Mickey  
> Machete – Leo, Takeshi  
> Mace – Yuuri, Phichit, Mila, Minami  
> Spear – Christophe  
> Ax – Yuri
> 
> Mood music:  
> Believer – Imagine Dragons  
> Undercover – Spooks Soundtrack  
> I Am the Fire – Halestorm  
> Bitter Sweet Symphony – The Verve  
> Grafitti (Instrumental) – GACKT
> 
> As always, unbeta'd. Disclaimer: I do not own Yuri!!! on Ice or The Hunger Games. Just my anxiety.
> 
> Thank you for reading, constructive criticism is always welcome.

Yuuri's eyes roamed over the room, taking in the thick mats, the weapon-lined padded walls, and the targets and jungle gyms thrown haphazardly around. He fingered the knife concealed along his right thigh. Yuri's knife, temporarily in Yuuri's safekeeping. Slender Yuri couldn't conceal his knife under the oddly tight, navy and black training jumpsuits. Yuuri's own knife lay along his left thigh.

“Where the fuck are the other tributes?” Yuri said, voicing Yuuri's thoughts aloud, only with added color. Yuuri stood still as the targets he faced, hesitant of what to do, since his only thoughts had been to brace himself for appraising eyes. 

But the only eyes here to gaze on him were Yuri's.

Prior to the moment they left Victor and Anya in the private suite assigned to the four of them, Victor's eyes followed Yuuri everywhere. Yuuri had always commanded a good portion of Victor's attention—but now he was hyperaware of every glance. And Yuuri knew that Victor kept focusing on him in some strange half-soothing, half-suffering admiration. As if Yuuri were both his lifeline and his anathema.

Yuuri would have sat in front of Victor and apologized for a solid hour, if it would keep Victor from feeling morose. About anything, about everything.

But Victor didn't need apologies. He needed this whole charade to be over. He needed to know no one would ever be reaped again. He needed to be free of living life as a facade of some champion, just so people wouldn't feel trammeled. He needed to go home. Read to some little kids. Do a thousand mundane things without dread and guilt eating him alive.

Yuuri shook himself out of his melancholy. “Should we spar?” Yuuri suggested to partner tribute, mind throwing out its first whim. He plucked off his glasses and set them aside, glad his vision just allowed him to punch a target right in front of him. “Victor kept holding both of us back when it came to hand-to-hand combat. It looks like this will be our last chance to practice together by ourselves.”

Yuri smirked at him. “I thought you'd never ask. Don't expect me to fight nice.”

“You mean fight fair?” Yuuri clarified.

“Yeah.”

“Well, of course not,” said Yuuri. “I won't, either.”

Yuri snorted. “What changed since Victor was training us together?” he asked. Yuuri knew he was thinking back to when Victor encouraged Yuuri to take advantage of Yuri's openings. Or to create openings, throw Yuri off-balance, by taunting him.

_“Katsuki Yuuri, do whatever you can to make your enemy reckless,” Victor said. “I know you made friends, but you can't be sure everyone will play along. The Capitol may find a way to turn them against you._

_“I don't have to tell Yuri Plisetsky to be mean, he's already all bile and salt and vinegar. But you are too nice, too timid. This may not be the Game itself, but you need to act like it is. This can't be just a warm up. This must feel real. The Game will be easier if you can trick yourself into thinking you've been there, done that.”_

_“But I can't act like this is real, or else I'd strangle him,” said Yuuri quietly. Nobody heard him._

Yuuri directed his attention back to the present, trying to steel his resolve with the mental imagery of unending fields and forests with no fences to dig under. A place where they could run and laugh with abandon. Endless possibilities awaiting them. 

The other boy was still waiting for Yuuri to answer his question. Yuuri just shrugged.

So Yuri slipped into an offensive stance, signaling Yuuri to take the defensive. Yuuri was getting impatient with following someone else's lead. He charged forward, fist aimed squarely at Yuri's jawbone. 

Yuri's blue-green eyes widened, but his lips curled in mocking approval. He pivoted away, movement clean and fluid as Victor had taught him. Yuri blocked the incoming fist with a raised forearm, his other hand seeking purchase on the fabric covering Yuuri's shoulder.

But the jumpsuits were too tight, and Yuri's fingertips only brushed past his collarbone before Yuuri leaped aside.

Yuuri focused his momentum into spinning round, then righted himself and took a step closer. Now sure his core weight was settled, he swung his leg for a high kick, smirking as Yuri's eyes narrowed. Yuri didn't like one of his favorite moves being used against him.

Yuri snatched at Yuuri's approaching ankle, but Yuuri dropped his leg lower. The change in direction threw Yuuri off balance, and Yuri slinked aside with Yuuri's heel only skimming across his ribs. 

But now Yuri was off balance and hadn't been planning on it.

Before his opponent could recover, Yuuri had both legs on the ground, turned to face Yuri again, and hurled himself at his torso. Down they tumbled, Yuri yelling as they hit the ground. He clipped Yuuri across the shoulder and temple. 

But it was no use; Yuuri's thighs had already locked and pinned down Yuri's legs. In another moment, he grabbed Yuri's wrists. Yuri blinked, then stared in surprise at how Yuuri bore forward, pinning Yuri's arms snugly against the mat. Yuuri blinked back, surprised his strategy had worked.

Yuri was spluttering, eyes wide. His expression seemed part insulted, part smug. “What was that?” he screamed in Yuuri's face. “You were afraid to do anything just a day ago! Were you holding out on me before?”

Yuuri shrugged. “I was like that when Victor trained me by myself, too,” he said, remembering how Victor had tried to unleash Yuuri's temper by prodding about his crush on Yuri. Yuuri knew Victor had _hoped_ his barbs would sink deep. Yuuri thought that . . . rather beneath Victor.

Yuuri understood that Victor was upset at this circular arrangement—with Victor feeling for Yuuri, but Yuuri feeling for Yuri, and Yuri just fed up with everything. Thankfully, Victor did not press, but found other things to taunt about instead. Yuuri could better refute and battle his own insecurities when they poured from Victor's lips.

But then Victor's taunts had backfired when he tried to insult Yuuri's mother . . . and couldn't bring himself to say anything against her. Victor gave up, and focused on affirmations.

Yuuri steadily improved from that moment, vastly improving his stance, his motion analysis, and his feints by the time Victor called their session to a close.

And now thanks to Victor's training, Yuri was wriggling impatiently under defeat.

“I concede to you, dumbass,” Yuri growled out. “But only because it's about time you took this shit seriously. Now lemme up.”

Yuuri smiled and complied, offering Yuri a helping hand which the blonde coolly ignored. Yuuri tapped his collar to make sure the note pinned along the inside was there. Still wondering where the other tributes were, they turned their attention to training singly with weapons. 

Yuuri retrieved his glasses, then went straight for spear, quarterstaff, and mace. (At least, he thought the spiked weight at the end of a short shaft was called a mace. Victor was always getting the two mixed up, and mixed Yuuri up as well.) After his session with Victor, he found the mace was his best weapon, suitable for both offense and defense. Yuuri suspected the mace felt natural thanks to endless hours playing with Mari's broken cricket bat. 

Spear and staff were good seconds. Yuuri could aim a spear well for offense, though he personally disliked the weapon. It gave him a strange tingle up his spine to hold it. Perhaps it was because Victor had won his third Game by piercing the last surviving tribute with her own spear. He hated remembering watching Victor on the television that year in particular.

Victor said Yuuri's strong core gave him surprising throwing range, even though Yuuri's musculature was still developing. But his defense with a spear was hopeless, and quarterstaff only marginally better. He left too many openings for smaller weapons, like daggers. 

So he focused on improving defense with both staff and spear, and coming up with ways to smoothly transition to mace in the midst of a fight. There was no guarantee he would get a mace once in the Game, so he had to be versatile.

Every so often he paused to breathe, re-asses his stance, and glance over to Yuri. Yuri divided his time between throwing daggers from half-prone positions as if hiding or wounded, swinging light swords and axes with grace and poise, and struggling with heavier swords. He left the heavy axes alone. 

Yuuri wasn't at all surprised that Yuri gravitated towards the best weapons for agility, cleaving, and stabbing. Yuri also took cool down periods to work on knots and nets and snares.

Yuuri was just about to throw the biggest spear he could bear, when he heard a door unlock behind him. Quickly running to spear back to its mount on the wall, he called out, “Yuri, bet you can't beat me to the top of the jungle gym.”

“Huh? Like hell I can't!”

Yuri took the hint to conceal their specialties from whoever was entering in stride. Within a moment of scrambling, both Yuuri and Yuri had reached the top on the concave web of rubber and rope. They stared down at Phichit Chulanont and Chris Giacometti, from Sector 5. Chris blew a kiss and waved at Yuuri, probably confident that his bodacious personality would be laughed at and dismissed. Phichit was more discreet, only winking in Yuuri's direction when Chris blocked the camera's view of his face.

Yuuri pretended to focus on learning snares techniques from Yuri, as they watched Chris and Phichit start a quarterstaff duel. Yuri snorted softly at the sight of Chris' speed and skill with such a long, unwieldy weapon. Yuuri suppressed a sigh. Neither of them would last more than a few seconds against him. Phichit fell flat on his butt and laughed uproariously.

Then two more tributes entered, and Chris split off on his own to throw spears like they were twigs. Yuuri envied how the eighteen-year-old was already beginning to fill out. He'd be very steady and strong once he peaked in his twenties, perhaps even stronger than Victor would be. 

Phichit trained with a mace. Yuuri mentally filed away to take advantage of Phichit's loose grip should they ever go mace-against-mace.

The new arrivals were Nishigori Takeshi and Kenjirou Minami of Sector 6. Yuuri already knew Takeshi was a devil with a machete thanks to Yuuko (whom Yuuri was pretty sure was his wife, either by official marriage or by common law). So he skipped analysis on the older boy, and focused on Minami instead. Minami had Yuri's relative height, build, and strength, but less grace or drive. He, too, favored the mace, but his grip was surprisingly good. His control and aim . . . not so much.

Here was Yuuri's chance.

Yuuri half-climbed, half slid down the jungle gym and stalked over to Minami with a cocky jut to his hip. “Yo, kiddo,” he said, trying to smother his shyness, but unable to suppress a feeble wave that belied his confident tone. “You need someone to help you with that? You'll need to fix your aim if you're going to last past the first hour of the Game.”

Minami turned to him with a syrupy smile. “Oh, please! That would mean the WORLD to me, Yuuri-kun!”

Yuuri smiled at the suffix, which he only heard in the Katsuki household when his parents were in a jubilant mood. Yuuri didn't get much teaching in, however, since Minami spent the whole time gushing over Yuuri's volunteering for Victor. Or his stance, or agility, or vice-like grip, or strong thighs. 

By the time Yuri rescued him by yelling at Minami and dragging Yuuri away, all the other tributes had gathered. Yuuri used Yuri's antics as a cover to slip his note from his collar to the curl of Takeshi's hand. Takeshi then clapped him on the shoulder and teased him for buttering up his sector partner.

Once they had returned to the top of the jungle gym, Yuri shared what he gleaned while Yuuri was with Minami. Georgi Popovich of Sector 4 had skills with a bow comparable to Victor. And Jean-Jacques Leroy of Sector 1 had terrifying strength, if lacking a touch of finesse, with a longsword. Yuri counted them the biggest threats, not to be engaged under any circumstances. 

Guang-Hong Ji, for all his gentleness, had killer aim with a bow and knew his way around a sword, even though most were too heavy for him. He was not to be underestimated. Sara Crispino could wield two axes at once, and Yuri reluctantly advised knocking one away first before engaging her. Mila Babicheva also demanded caution—for all her smiles and jests, she was by far the most sadistic, unpredictable mace-wielder on the mat. 

Leo de la Inglesia was a bit clumsy with his machete, but he had staggering potential, and Yuri noted Takeshi watching Leo like a hawk. Seung-Gil Lee and Mickey Crispino also wielded longswords, though not as heavy or far-reaching as JJ. Still, it would take Yuuri and Yuri working together to keep either of them at bay.

Yuri ended his information dump by grumbling about the weapons too heavy for him. Yuuri shook his head, saying they'd have to be creative with what they had.

The two boys from Sector 7 frittered away the remaining training time by making hammocks, and pulley systems with buckets and bundles. It felt silly, given the fact that today was their only remaining day for training. Tomorrow was the parade. On the third day, they'd enter the arena shortly after a light breakfast — if they could stomach any breakfast at all. But Yuuri trusted that Victor's strategy would serve its purpose. 

Just moments before all tributes were flushed out to wait for a summons, Phichit clambered up the jungle gym and stole a portion of their rope. Yuri swore to the moon and back, aiming his vitriol at Phichit's giggling form in retreat.

Yuuri plucked up the tiny note Phichit left taped beneath one of the bars, and read it under cover of fixing some knots in his lap. He recognized both Celestino's precise, crosshatch cursive and Phichit's box-like scrawls. He squinted, only able to read by bending forward.

The cursive read:

_Min K is with us. Post-Game plan not set. Game plan set: Kat v. Nish, Pli lay snares. Changes: more fights, arena cold. Be nasty._

The boxy script read:

_Fig know rebs move. Not know us = rebs. Cao help. May exit Game early. Racing clock. Fig may jam coms. Take care._

Yuuri clenched and unclenched his hands around the scraps of rope, tamping down on rising nausea. They were confirming and locking in plans now, in case the tributes were isolated in the arena. So Phichit stating the obvious had to mean something. Mostly likely Yakov, the liaison with the most Capitol connections, had gotten tipped off. Perhaps by Cao Bin, who seemed an ally, though Yuuri didn't know how deep this new bond ran with the Gamemaster. Or with Minami.

Yuuri wasn't sure he could last the Game without at least one message from Victor.

He snapped at Yuri to stop griping, and Yuri eyed him and threw a double middle finger salute. Yuuri huffed and turned away to hide slipping the note into his mouth.

As he and Yuri jumped down from the jungle gym, making a show of ignoring each other as they trudged toward the door after the other tributes, he played out scenarios in his head. He wondered how much Figarello knew about the rebel forces gathering, both within the Capitol itself and within the sectors beyond. 

Yuuri also wondered if the rebels would be forced to disperse before he and the other tributes could bust out of the arena. If their backup vanished to fight another day, what were a gaggle of kids and mentors supposed to do against every enforcer in the citadel?

* * *

For once, Yuuri would have liked to be the first one summoned of the two of them. Just once.

But that was not to be, for after each tribute from Sectors 1 through 6 had been called back into the training room, Yuri's name blared through the speaker. Cao Bin's voice was almost as cheery as Anya's had been when she narrated the reaping. Good to know the chief Gamemaster, at least, wasn't bored yet.

Yuri strode through the door without so much as a glance or a taunt for Yuuri. Yuuri hadn't been able to tell him the note's exact contents yet, but Yuri had read a look or two. Now Yuri's mood was fouler than the poisoned wells on the abandoned farm Victor had bought. 

Yuuri wanted to pray that Yuri wouldn't do anything reckless, but was quite sure no one would be able to grant his prayer. The only thing Yuuri had in his power: the resolve to upstage Yuri. Yuuri was a master of envisioning his own worst fears—how hard could it be to conjure up those of the Gamemasters?

But then Yuuri imagined how the Gamemasters might retaliate. And there were too many possibilities involving nerve gas alone. 

Within two minutes, Yuri came back through the door to reacquaint himself with the chair next to Yuuri. Yuuri's resolve was shattered. Yuri smirked at him like a cat who had knocked over a saucer of cream and sauntered away.

“You're up, Katsudon.”

Cao Bin's voice sang out his name over the speaker. Yuuri trudged through the swinging door with leaden feet, tongue, and heart. He shuffled over to the center of the room and bowed, mumbling his name and sector. Sweat was already streaming down the back of his neck.

Cao Bin inclined his head, but no one else was paying attention. The other Gamemasters sampled a feast laid out for them behind the forcefield, speaking in hushed tones to one another. Yuuri couldn't read everything they said, but he know he saw the word “Yuri”, and it clearly wasn't referring to him.

His eyes fell on an ax embedded in one corner of the forcefield. And Yuuri's vision flooded with red. If the Gamemasters put two and two together, they would realize people in Sector 7 knew how to exploit weaknesses in forcefield generators. And they might start wondering if they knew how to slip by electric fences and other barriers, too.

 _Yuri, you're the one who fucked up this time,_ he thought.

Nearly blind with his rage, he stomped to each corner of the room, gathering eight test dummies, most of which already had jagged mock-wounds embedded in heads and chests. He tossed them in a pile. Then he counted off Gamemasters on his fingers. Eight of them still ignoring him, a curious Cao Bin making nine. Yuuri wrinkled his nose, annoyed the numbers didn't match up. A shield glinted in the corner of his vision, and with a grunt, he retrieved that, its accompanying sword, and the heaviest mace he could handle.

He drove the sword into the mat and propped the shield upright against it. He sat the dummies with folded arms beside it, four on the left, four on the right. Smothering a smirk, he grabbed a small tub of black paste he recognized. It could be used to treat wounds, make damp tinder flammable, or combined with nitrate-rich plants to make a fast-working poison. It would come in handy later.

On the dummies he smeared in black paste _Plebeian 1, Plebeian 2, Plebeian 3_ , and so on. Part of him was worried he was misspelling. Ah, well. If he looked like a hick, he looked like a hick.

Then he doubled back to the shield and added _CAO BIN_.

He heard Cao Bin laughing and clapping behind him. That made a couple other Gamemasters look up. The rest followed suit when Yuuri banged the mace against the shield as if it were a gong, hiding the tub in the back of his collar. When all eyes zoned in on him, many of them narrowed, he lapsed back into a fit of anxiety. He was shyly smiling and waving at them like a girl beckoning her friends to a picnic. Then he caught sight of Yuri's ax hanging suspended again, and his limbs were moving. He planted his feet in front of the forcefield, jumped, and yanked down the ax.

He turned and barreled toward the dummies, ax and mace uplifted. Since they were immovable, he didn't have to worry about timing, about angles, about counter-moves. He just let his instincts and inhibitions loose in a whoosh of air leaving his lungs.

Within a minute, he was standing in front of the shield again. The dummies were sprawled in shreds around him. Not a head or limb remained attached. All the skulls and chests were caved in with savage force.

He turned to Cao Bin and mimed the salute he gave and received at the reaping, placing the flat of the ax against his chest and pointing the head of the mace at Cao Bin's face.

“Thank you,” he said. He knew they wouldn't understand if he said its more formal Japanese counterpart, _arigatou gozaimasu_. His chest felt as if it would cave in like that of those dummies, now that all the feelings he had been tamping down were free and roiling like a storm.

He turned and threw first ax, then mace hard enough lodge into a portion of the padded wall twenty feet away. As an afterthought, on his way to the exit he wrenched the sword out of its place and let both sword and shield fall over with a smack.

Cao Bin was still laughing when the doors swung shut behind him.

* * *

Yuuri refused to answer Yuri's eager questions until they were sequestered in their private suite with Victor and Anya. His ill humor was further soured when Anya greeted them with the news that their schedule was shortened.

They were not going to rest the remainder of the day and sleep on a slow-moving, gin-powered sky galley. They were going to rest two hours, then take a swift sky galley to the core of the Capital, _then_ take to the streets and join the last leg of the parade. 

Yuri made a face, then nearly forgot this new development, practically purring over mini _pirozhki_ served along with tea. All courtesy of Anya's request. Yuuri couldn't even think of eating. And then felt guilty for it, remembering how he once witnessed a man trade his flute for bread for his daughter. And now Yuuri had the nerve to lose his appetite.

Anya demonstrated that her comlink-jamming device was working by tapping a knife under a lacy white sleeve. Yuri poked him with his foot to further drive home the hint. Yuuri sighed. He summarized his performance as simply as possible. But Victor kept adding unwarranted details, until he finally admitted he saw a live feed of all the demonstrations.

“You called them plebs?!” Yuri shrieked, and he fell back onto a couch laughing, stuffing a pillow over his face.

“With impeccable spelling, no less,” said Victor, smiling with blinding approval at Yuuri for the first time in a while. His teeth put the cream-colored three-piece he lounged in to shame. And Yuuri wasn't even in a mood to appreciate it.

Yuri removed the pillow from his face so he could breathe. “You little shit, I was supposed to be the bad one and draw their attention,” he said, grinning at Yuuri like he had called shotgun on a sky galley to hell. “Why do I even bother? You think volunteering for Victor didn't make you obnoxious enough?”

Yuuri stared at him, slightly aghast and very confused. By all rights, Yuri should find his reckless upstaging even worse than when he confessed his crush. But instead, Yuri seemed reluctantly proud, like a vulture watching its fledgling tear apart its first carcass. (If vultures even nurtured their young that long—Yuuri honestly didn't know.)

Normally, Yuuri would be relieved that Yuri wasn't angry. But today was not a normal day.

“Of course not,” he said. “I'll be content after we've wrecked the arena. That's still too far away. Wake me up when they're done giving us scores and want to load us on a sky galley.”

Anya's eyebrows rose. She looked to Victor. “Is this normal for Yuuri in these situations? Yuuri, are you okay?” She set down her black china teacup with a clink, brow now furrowing in concern.

Victor's reassuring smile was almost as confusing as Yuri's. “You're upset, right, Yuuri? You did very well today, you don't need to worry about that. What's wrong? What did the note from Phichit say? Did another tribute say something to you?”

“This little shit,” said Yuuri, inclining his head toward Yuri still prone on the couch, “just spelled it out to every Gamemaster that we know about forcefield weak spots. Even if Cao Bin is for us, he can't shut all of them up before they go straight to Figarello. You just made Otabek's job back home that much harder, Yuri, they'll probably alter every forcefield in Sector 7 before the Game's over. Probably alter them in the arena before we make it there, too, so our rebel friends will have to find another way to bust us out.”

Yuri's jaw dropped, furious because he knew Yuuri was right. Maybe because Yuuri was being the harsh one, for once. “What did you expect me to do? They were ignoring me!”

“Yeah, because tantrums solve everything,” said Yuuri, pacing and wiping away sweat from the back of his neck. “Gotta make 'em respect you, five-year-old style.”

“Yuuri,” said Victor in a placating tone. Yuuri knew he was talking to him because Victor had a fond lilt he used with no one else. “You weren't happy when they ignored you, either. This is scary, I know, but—”

“Figarello's probably going to jam communications once we're in the arena!” said Yuuri, waving his arms, trying to make Victor and Anya and Yuri see how dire their situation had grown. “And with all those cameras, there's no way we can send notes via sponsor gifts. Not unless you can come up with some magic code that we all recognize, Yuri, but the Capitol won't suspect. 

“Victor! We'll have no way of knowing what to brace for, until something goes horribly right or horribly wrong and then everybody scrambles. And meanwhile, Anya, we'll be twiddling our thumbs, trying to look half-dead to make it suspenseful, without ACCIDENTALLY LOPPING SOMEBODY'S HEAD OFF!”

It wasn't until he blinked and his vision cleared, that he realized tears were blurring his vision in the first place. Or that his voice had risen to a shout. His lips and hands were trembling. He was on the brink of a meltdown, and meltdowns starring Yuuri took hours to sort out. 

He grabbed a quill pen and pad of luxury paper on the nearest coffee table and scribbled out a verbatim dictation of Phichit's note, relying on muscle memory. Then he pressed it into Victor's palm. Victor tried to take his hand in a soothing gesture, but Yuuri snatched his hand away. The tears were only falling faster, and now his vision was swimming. Almost as useless as the eyes of the tribute Victor had blinded with acid in order to win his second Game.

“Oi, Yuuri, what the actual fuck,” he heard Yuri say. Yuri's voice was less testy, more worried. But not worried enough. “This sucks. I fucked up, I'll admit. But you gotta stop acting like somebody's trying to kill your dumb ass before the Game starts.”

“You mean like you tried, after my interview with Morooka?” Yuuri asked. 

Yuri growled with rage, but didn't move. Maybe Victor was holding him back. Blinking didn't clear Yuuri's vision so he could find out. He didn't care. He fumbled over to the bedroom assigned to him and slammed the door shut. He hoped Yuri didn't let the mini _pirozhki_ go to waste.

In a few moments, Anya whispered through the door that Yuri had been ranked nine out of twelve, and Yuuri eleven out of twelve. She also mentioned leaving Neapolitan ice cream at the door, since Victor said Yuuri's favorite ice cream was strawberry, and Yuri said Yuuri's favorite was chocolate.

Yuuri's face was plastered to his pillow, and he didn't trust his voice to say thank you. Yuri's knife still lay concealed along his thigh.

In a moment, he got up, opened the door, and left Yuri's knife in place of the ice cream before softly shutting and locking the door again. He ate the vanilla portion first, because that was his favorite. He wanted to scoff at the other two boys for being so far off the mark, but then it hit him. When there was ice cream at Victor's house, he ate strawberry ice cream with Victor because it was Victor's favorite, and chocolate with Yuri because it was Yuri's favorite.

He licked his spoon clean and faceplanted into the pillow again.

* * *

Yuuri's eyes widened at the sheer volume of the cheers surround them on all sides. It was like vaguely approving thunder. Questions only multiplied inside his already crowded skull.

_How many people are packed along the blocked-off street and the rooftops? Do the rooftops even have railings? How did they get here so fast? The announcement about the parade being early went public about an hour ago, right? And why are there no sky galleys airborne for miles around?_

All previous Game processions took place just before a noonday feast. The time was about 0600 hours now.

“I can't believe Anya put us in _matching outfits_ ,” said Yuri, as they stood off to the side of the chariot that would bear them down Coliseum Avenue. They were petting and feeding sugar to the horses about to be hitched for the ride. Yuuri kept trying to memorize every imposing, ornate building in sight. But he kept feeling overwhelmed and turning back to look at the tranquil horses, who didn't seem to find this crowd the least bit unnerving. Capitol horses were far less skittish than their country counterparts, somehow.

“Everybody else is themed but still individual, why can't ours be like that?” Yuri went on. “This is ridiculous and humiliating.”

Yuuri blinked at him. Yuri was talking as if they hadn't avoided each other for the entire sky galley ride from the edge to the center of the Capitol. Yuuri's first reaction was to angry dismissal, but he squashed the feeling down. Knowing Yuri, the fifteen-year-old was probably trying to help them get back on a good footing with each other. 

“ _More_ ridiculous and humiliating than wearing a baby frock, diaper, and pacifier?” Yuuri asked.

“ _Definitely_.”

Yuuri only smirked. He thought Anya had done an excellent job of highlighting both their complexions. The black linen tunics with leather belts had a blue-green sheen for Yuri, and a red-brown sheen for Yuuri. They wore tiny circlets of black braided leather on their brows. Goose feathers died black were sewn along their shoulders and long sleeves to suggest both a yoke for carrying water, and wings as tribute to Victor's famous silver kite costume. 

The black was to symbolize the ideal, mineral-rich earth for sustaining Sector 7's fields and forests. Even though there was very little good earth to be had, what with recent droughts in over half the sector. Anya hinted embers were also going to play a role, once the costumes had absorbed the right amount of sunlight.

He turned his focus back to Yuri himself. Now Yuri had broken the ice, it was time for Yuuri to scare up an olive branch. And the knife Anya found outside Yuuri's door and returned to Yuri didn't count.

“I'm sorry I lost my cool earlier,” said Yuuri, toeing the alternating grooved and smooth floor of the chariot.

“Noted,” said Yuri. “I'm sorry, too.” He paused and tapped his knife hidden in his sleeve to activate the comlink-jamming device. “It's a truce. We . . . were just taking Celestino's advice to be nasty very seriously.”

Yuuri grinned back at him. “That is a _terrible_ excuse.”

Yuri said nothing, simply tapping the comlink-jamming device off again. Immediately, the comlink attached to their ears buzzed with Victor's voice.

“– to send you off.”

“What was that, old man?” Yuri griped beside him.

Victor sighed so dramatically, Yuuri swore he felt Victor's breath brush a hair or two out of place. Never mind that Victor and Anya were seated at least half a mile away, where Coliseum Avenue ended abruptly at the base of the arena itself .

“If you two schoolgirls stopped whispering, you'd have heard that,” Victor griped back.

“You whisper more than anybody else I've ever met, and you know it,” said Yuri, only warming to a battle of stubbornness and teasing. He lowered his voice to a parody of Victor's softest tones. “Oh, Yuuri, guess what new trick Makkachin learned? Yuuri, Yuuri, where are you going, you only told me ten thousand times! Yuuri, little nasty Yuri is being _really_ nasty today, go feed him some _katsudon_ so he'll shut up.”

The impression was disturbingly spot-on. The other boy even got the lilt on his name right. Yuuri noticed the tributes further ahead of them mounting their chariots, and he followed suit, tempted to turn off his comlink until Victor and Yuri grew bored of each other.

Two chariots ahead of them, Chris looked back straight at Yuuri and blew kisses with each palm. Yuuri felt his ears burning. Chris, being the boldest tribute past the age of majority, wore a golden fishnet draped across one shoulder that left almost nothing to the imagination. A Poseidon that looked more at home in . . . what were they called? Strip clubs, or something? Not even JJ's green and purple robes suggesting royalty looked half as ostentatious or shocking. 

To save his sanity, Yuuri focused on Phichit instead, looking like the world's cheeriest Selkie in faux sealskin, with delicate blue, green, and white flower buds arranged around his hair and shoulders to mimic ocean spray.

Finally Yuri and Victor were done trying to out-snark the other, and Yuri climbed up to stand beside Yuuri on the chariot. Within seconds, the horse's stable boy finished snapping all the straps, bridles, and reins into place, shot the tributes a thumbs up, and clicked his tongue. The horses trotted forward, in exact time with the horses before them, and the horses before them, and the horses before them.

Yuuri watched every dip in the road, every pole, every corner of every building, drinking every detail he could retain like a sponge. Several of the other liaisons had crossed paths with him and Yuri while Anya's assistants showed them to the chariot. He played their words over in his mind to help him focus.

After turning on his own jamming device, Celestino's advice was to glean information for taking control of Coliseum Avenue later on. “Watch for the weakest and strongest points, Yuuri,” he had whispered. “I'm pretty sure I know where they are. But if you can find anything I missed and pass it around, do so!”

Minako's advice was to stress most importance on the brewery first, then the bakery, and then the headquarters of Figarello's fashion empire. “All of them are crucial to Figarello's power and prestige,” she said through hiccups. Yuuri couldn't tell if she were genuinely halfway drunk, or just pretending. “But why are they all along the same street, right next to the arena? Wouldn't he want to make it _harder_ for enemies of the state to hit him where it hurts? There's a damn good reason he's putting all his chickens in one basket. See if you can figure it out.”

Yakov had taken Yuri aside and yelled at him. But when Yuuri asked him what he said, Yuri just said it was a lecture about being overconfident and underestimating everyone around you. Yuuri didn't think Yakov had been talking about Yuri, but he didn't know if Yuri felt the same way.

Yuuri was shocked at how quickly they neared the end of the avenue. He spotted the sprawling fashion building first, since it was largest and strangest. Slate grey, all extreme, pointy angles, the base of the building small, but the roof broad and spacious, jutting out into the street like a protruding tooth. Slanted pillars connected base to roof, with miniature upright pillars supporting them in turn. The second floor looked to be all windows, while the first floor had none. Yuuri saw no flaws or weaknesses, other than being top-heavy.

Next was the bakery, shaped like an oval, tall, but very plain and solid. Yuuri's eyes had trouble staying put to look for clues. There were few windows, all of them were narrow, more like niches to fire arrows that happened to have glass panes.

The final building before you reached the stark concrete of the arena was the brewery. Brown as fresh bread or a well-preserved barrel, it looked to be made entirely of wood, though Yuuri was sure there had to be a steel framework somewhere. It straddled over the last stretch of the avenue itself, anchoring itself on both side of the street with a perfect cylinder. Like towers in a castle where there was no stone to be had. Yuuri was disappointed there wasn't a drawbridge in sight.

He was even more disappointed that so far, the only possible weakness he could hit upon was fire, and it would only work for one of their targets.

Something flickered along his shoulders in his peripheral vision. He tensed and glanced down his arm, sucking in a lungful of air at the sight of tongues of imitation flame dancing along fabric and feathers.

Yuri noticed at the same moment, swearing and gripping the edge of the chariot with white knuckles so he wouldn't look silly trying to bat away an illusion.

Though still yard and yards away from the chair and podium graced by Figarello and the Gamemasters, Yuuri could still spot Victor and Anya seated with the other liaisons and stylists. Yuuri was elated—this was a chance to trade information late in the schedule that no one had anticipated.

Fanfare drowned out the sound of cheering and clapping as all seven chariots lined up to face Figarello and his Gamemasters. Flutes blended seamlessly with trumpets, and once again, Yuuri thought of the man who traded a vessel of music for one meal. 

The arena loomed over even Figarello like he was an insect. Yuuri relished the picture.

All at once, the liaisons and stylists were filtering down from their perches to step lightly onto the paved avenue and reunite with their tributes. Anya capered up to them and hugged them both as soon as they dismounted the chariot, making Yuri sputter. She delighted in the mock fire for a moment before the effect ran its course and sputtered out. Yuuri glanced to Victor, who did not greet them at all. He was stroking the horses and Makkachin, who trailed behind him, by turns. His lips were pressed so hard together, they were turning paler than his suit.

Yuuri tapped his hidden knife. “What's wrong, Victor?”

Victor's words were slightly slurred, as if he'd just downed one nip of vodka too many. “Word from Cao Bin is, when Figarello saw your costumes, his first remarks were about scorched earth.”

Yuuri felt his fingers growing numb. Anya ushered them after a beckoning Yakov, no doubt hoping to get Victor back indoors before prying eyes could notice he seemed out of spirits.

Victor allowed himself to be steered, but motioned subtly to Yuuri for him to turn off his comlink-jamming device. Yuuri did. “I regret to inform you, my friends,” said Victor, putting on his sing-song, I'm-the-champion voice. “But it seems the powers that be have decided the Games will actually begin in one hour.”

Now half Yuuri's body went numb. He couldn't even feel his legs move, but move they did. Yuri and Anya both nearly tripped, but recovered and pressed on. Yuuri saw Anya wink back tears. Yuri tilted his head down to hide behind his shifting golden hair.

Wordlessly, they trailed after Victor through the nearest entrance in the arena wall. Makkachin shuffled by Yuuri's side, quiet and alert as she felt tension mounting.

The first room they passed along a narrow hall was labeled “Sector 7 Tributes,” a lucky thing since Victor punched the door open on autopilot. He didn't acknowledge any of the other liaisons trying to catch his eye. Yuuri didn't even make it fully through the doorway before Victor wrapped his arms around his shoulders. 

“Oh, God. Oh my God, Yuuri. Why? Why?”

And Yuuri felt tears chasing each other down his neck. It took a couple heartbeats for him to realize that Victor's face was smushed in the crook between his jawline and his shoulder, and that Victor was crying, not Yuuri himself.

Yuri tiptoed past them, and Anya gently nudged them aside enough to close the door. Victor suddenly drew away a little, just enough for one arm to seize Yuri's arm and reel him close. Yuri accepted his fate, allowing Victor to crush both of them in a hug as his sobbing grew erratic. Under any other circumstances, both Yuuri and Yuri would have rebelled.

But awkward teenage crushes didn't matter nearly as much when one or all of you could die after an hour.

Yuuri closed his eyes, and just tried to focus on happy memories with Victor and Yuri and Yuri's grandpa and his family. But he kept getting distracted by Victor's choked wails and Yuri's snuffling.

He opened his eyes, giving up. He looked to Anya, who was manning the door so no one entered. She silently cried through one lace handkerchief after another, each one looking like they'd been shorn from her puffy lace skirt.

When she got to her last one, she stepped forward and gave it to Yuuri to pass on to Victor. It took a few moments for Victor to finally accept. He released his friends, Yuuri seeking out the nearest chair before he fell over, since he was still feeling numb, like the nerves in his body were taking a permanent holiday. Yuri stood rooted to the spot, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

Victor nodded his thanks to Anya, striding over and returning the handkerchief. His eyes were like cold steel, and instantly Yuuri felt terrified, not for himself, but for Victor. Those were Victor's eyes only when he was cornered in the arena and he became like a doll possessed.

“I'm going to kill him.”

“Victor . . .” said Yuuri, making motions across his throat. Anya tapped the knife hidden in her sleeve to show him she had already sealed the room.

“I'm going to kill Figarello,” said Victor, turning himself instinctively toward the center of the arena itself, even though many walls separated them. Yuuri stared at Victor's back in dismay. “I don't care if it's just as the Game begins, or just as it ends, or if it's five years from now. He's going to die. Quick, slow, clean, messy. Doesn't matter. He's dead. He. Is. Dead.”

“Victor!” Yuri snapped, a trace of fear in his voice as well. He still wouldn't look up.

Anya stepped forward to placate Victor, but Yuuri waived her off. “Victor,” he said, putting emphasis on the _r_ because it used to be an inside joke. It might work to snap short Victor's train of thought. “You know our plan right now is to push Figarello into exile.”

“I know.” Victor's voice was growing hoarse. 

“We don't have the time or means to hunt him and his cabinet down like vigilantes.” Yuuri took a step forward. Victor allowed it. “I hate that man, but Victor, we need to stay on target.” He took another step forward. Victor turned toward him, poised to move, but he didn't drop into a fighting stance. “Quick coup, level the playing field for reform. You even agreed with Minako that we can't make Figarello a martyr by assassination.”

“I know, Yuuri!” Victor exclaimed. “But I can't let him get away with this, on top of everything! We had two more days together, all of us, before our world would go to shit. But he couldn't even give us that!” Victor surged forward so suddenly, even though Yuuri was braced, he wasn't really prepared for just how _fast_ Victor could move. Victor shook him by the shoulders. “I may or may not ever see you again in this life, Yuuri. If the worst does come to pass, I'm going to watch Figarello leave this life, and it will be _my doing_.”

The shaking didn't hurt, even though Victor's fingers were digging into his flesh. What hurt was seeing so much pain in Victor's eyes. Pain Yuuri couldn't do anything to soothe, not the way Victor needed. Tears were beginning to wet Victor's eyelashes again. Yuuri raised his hands and brushed them aside gently with his thumbs.

“Victor, Victor,” he said. “I understand. But please, for our sakes, please hold back. Don't do anything to get yourself killed if you can avoid it. We don't want to go through hell, only to find out you're not there to welcome us back. Makkachin will never forgive you, and neither will we.”

Victor's eyes lost a little of that cold glint. He sighed, hiccuped, and smiled at Yuuri. “You cruel little fool,” Victor said, guiding their foreheads together. “How did you know that is the only thing you could say, and you are the only person who could say it, to convince me?”

“I don't know, you might be bribed with books, too,” Yuuri huffed out before he could stop himself. “And you know I'm no fool.”

Victor just kept smiling. “Maybe.” But then he leaned forward to whisper in Yuuri's ear, "If you can claim my life as yours and Yuri's, then I can return the claim. You fight in that arena for me and for Yuri. For your family and Otabek back home. I didn't want this for you, but since your threw our sacrifice to protect you back in our faces, you make it up to us. You do whatever it takes. I can accept I'll never have your heart, not like that. But I won't ever accept your death."

"So demanding," Yuuri complained. "You notice that I said please?"

Victor said nothing, instead reluctantly drawing away again.

At Yuuri's signal, Anya tapped her knife again to turn off the comlink-jamming device. “I'm going to gather last minute things we'll need, since we didn't have time earlier,” she said. “I may not be back until just before you go out into the arena. But don't worry, I promise you: I will be there for both of you boys, so you don't go up alone.”

“Yeah, yeah, get lost and do your thing and don't get your dress smudged,” said Yuri.

Anya wrapped him in another spontaneous hug before patting Yuuri's shoulder and dashing out the door.

Yuuri's emotions descended upon him like a smothering cloud. He knew he cherished every moment in that hour with Yuri and Victor, but after the fact he had no clear recollection of what they said or did. He knew Victor was hugging a lot, he knew Yuri complained but never shoved Victor away. He knew Victor rattled on like a magpie, and Yuri teased. For a while, it was like all scents and colors were lost to him, as if his mind tried to filter minimal sensation, so he could process his own dread.

He didn't even realize he had closed himself off until he felt feather-light fingertips tracing his face. Up over his eyebrows, down along his temples and cheekbones, then curving to meet at a point on his chin.

Victor was doing that thing they used to draw each other back home.

He shook himself, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment. He must have been very, very far gone. Nobody, not even his mother or Mari, had needed to soothe him like that for about three years.

“It's okay, Yuuri,” said Victor, smiling, then averting his eyes so Yuuri would feel less self-conscious. “When you're ready, you need to change.”

Yuuri stared dumbly at a black bundle Victor was holding out to him. Mechanically he took it, trudged to a mesh screen he'd not even noticed in a corner, and slipped into the tightest jumpsuit the Capitol gave him yet. Luckily he could still conceal the wrapped alfalfa, Anya's knife, and the small tub of black paste.

When he emerged from behind the screen, Yuri and Victor were looking at him expectantly, and two enforcers were standing in the doorway impatiently. And his stomach prompted descended to the Earth's molten core. Victor couldn't go down beneath the arena with them; he had to stay behind and wait for his escort to the liaison and sponsor lounge.

Yuuri wanted to run out the door so he wouldn't have to say goodbye. But the only thing more terrifying than saying goodbye was _not_ saying goodbye. So he stayed.

Victor saved him the trouble of walking over. He launched himself at Yuuri and spun him round in one last hug.

“Remember, Yuuri. You're absolutely fatal, and I adore you, and you're going to floor everyone watching with shock and awe.”

Yuuri hugged him back and snuffled and muttered about Victor keeping Makkachin with him always. Victor kissed his temple.

Then Victor took Yuri up in a spinning hug and said, “Remember, Yuri. You're hell on blades, and I hate you like a brother, and you're going to consume everything in your path with sheer rage.” Yuuri expected Yuri to duck away before Victor could kiss him on the temple. Miracle of miracles, hell must have just crystallized to ice, because Yuri actually raised his head to meet the gesture of affection.

“You fucking listen, you dumbass,” he said. His blue-green eyes stared unblinking. “Do what you do best — survive. And if you fucking fail, I will find you, dig your ass up, revive you with dark magic, and then stab you once for every tear you make Yuuri shed. Then bury you again. Dead or alive. And teach Makkachin to meow like a cat.”

“Makkachin would _never_ ,” Victor quipped.

Yuri blinked and broke away with a sneer.

And then the enforcers were done waiting and gently but firmly tapped the shoulder of each tribute. And Yuuri was falling in step with Yuri, straining to wave at Victor over the white plated shoulders.

Victor looked like he did straight after coming home to Sector 7 from a Game – guarded and confused and disappointed, ready to bash his head against the nearest wall.

Footfalls echoing down yards upon yards of hallways, Yuuri could feel his heart trying to escape his chest like a bat out of hell. Smiling insistently all the while, like he had staples keeping his lips poised in something resembling a smile. He smiled only because Yuri was keeping up a front of smiling beside him. By now every person in the Capitol had to know Yuri smiling meant something was going to burn.

By the time they had crossed the labyrinth beneath the arena, and approached the pods for the tributes to use as launchpads, Yuuri didn't bother smiling. He could not believe there was actually a chance of survival. Not for him. Not for Yuri. Not for Victor. 

He was mad to even dream of sparking an uprising midst a Game. Why was he prone to such recklessness? What a fool he was, what a hopeless idiot.

His self-abusing inner diatribe only ceased when he walked into the tube and the door sealed shut with a high-pitched hiss. He felt like he were in the cockpit leading to a morgue, and then to his grave. Maybe once he got to the surface, he should just dig a grave and save himself the trouble. No more worries for Yuuri.

And then, in his fury at himself, he threw his stance as wide as he could without ramming each foot against the plexiglass walls.

He wondered if the plexiglass was strong enough to withstand a mace. Too bad he didn't have one on hand to test it out. Perhaps it would do wonders for his nerves to utterly decimate _something_ besides his own composure.

He noticed the enforcers were no longer in the room surrounding his pod, though where exactly they'd gone, he couldn't say and didn't care. He could see Yuri to his left, through the only wall that was also made of the same plexiglass as the tube. He just wanted to see Yuri. And Anya. _Where is Anya?!_

Right then, his stomach growled. Yuuri regretted not eating when he had the chance. What he would give for a bowl of _katsudon_!

Half a minute later—maybe half an hour—Anya ran breathlessly through the door, not stopping till she was almost ready to rub her nose against the plexiglass of the tube. She muttered a dozen breathless nothings he could scarcely hear. But her palm pressed a slip of paper against the glass, and he squinted behind his glasses to read:

_Cel's ally has sky galley. 3 more revolts in 3 sectors. It begins. See you next level._

Yuuri felt a small, cruel glimmer of hope. The note he passed Takeshi earlier that day had been the address of a potential donation sky galley. Securing it on the same day was a godsend. He hoped the revolts breaking out would not involve too many casualties.

He nodded imperceptibly to Anya, then thanked her for her support, her respect, her sense and wit. Hoping to focus any outside attention on him, as she put her hand to her mouth, nodding with overflowing emotion, and swallowed the note.

The two enforcers appeared at the door again. Yuuri wondered if he was wrong in assuming Anya was allowed to stand right by the pod until it bore Yuuri upwards. Anya looked a little confused, but smiled brightly. Then the enforcers marched forward, and two more enforcers marched into the room after them, and all four of them raised their batons.

“ANYA!” Yuuri screamed. He slammed his fists against the plexiglass again and again and again. He looked desperately into the next room for Yuri, screaming at him to signal for help. Yuri froze, eyes wide with horror and disbelief, then he started banging against the walls of his own pod. No one paid him any mind.

Yuuri turned the other direction to see if there was another tribute in another pod, but his eyes only met solid metal wall.

He kept banging relentlessly against the plexiglass, bruising palms and knuckles.

He didn't still until after the batons stilled. Anya's dress was no longer white.

The floor of the pod began to rise, and no amount of jumping or screaming would halt its ascent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Anya is injured, but not dead. Big breaths. She has been granted Immunity from Death along with our main trio, because I ended up really liking her.  
> \- A nerdy coworker sent me [this meme](https://pics.me.me/they-say-revenge-is-a-dish-best-served-cold-they-4172036.png). Hence the ice cream. :)  
> \- I don't know how this chapter slipped past writer's block. IT'S LIKE 20 PAGES OF CRAP, I TELL YOU. *screams into the void*  
> \- Celestino and Minako always end up co-running the show and becoming everybody's dad and mom. To paraphrase _Muppet Treasure Island_ , how do they bloody do that?  
> \- This story was supposed to be pretty simple. Actual plot hit outta nowhere. Oops.  
> \- Maces and flails are easy to mix up, here's a Wikipedia mace article for sanity's sake.  
> \- Who saw Chris taking Finnick duty, and wearing a literal fishnet, from a mile away? Who cares? It was TOO PERFECT.  
> \- I got a headcanon that NOBODY in YOI is capable of making nasty yo mama jokes. And another headcanon that Minami's fanboying over Yuuri annoys the hell out of Yuri.  
> \- Hope Yuuri doesn't sound WAY too mature for 16. (Main reason why he had a teenage shouting match with Yuri, these kids need to vent somehow.) I think of him as chillingly cold about anything his anxiety puts blinders on, but also endlessly sensitive about other things.  
> -I hate typing out “comlink-jamming device,” but I can't shorten it to jammer like I wanted. Google tells me there's all sorts of slang meanings we 'Muricans don't know about (and don't need to know about).  
> \- Got to see both Halestorm and Evanescence perform live. (Wrote a bit of the scene before the Game starts while waiting in line for Evanescence.) HOLY GUACAMOLE. If they come to your town and you get a chance to see them, GO SEE THEM.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the Game begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Profuse apologies for the long wait! Personal struggles/bad national news NUKED my muse. So if you totally failed NaNoWriMo, it's cool, a lot of us did. I took a break to obsess over _Thor: Ragnarok_ and _Star Wars: Episode VII: The Last Jedi_ and read Seanan McGuire, and Delilah S. Dawson ( _Phasma_ FTW), and V. E. Schwab.
> 
> There's been so many damn mass shootings in the U.S., I couldn't bring myself to write violence for weeks. Especially since this chapter does involve guns. 
> 
> Final caution, this is where tributes start dropping like flies. Only Victor, Yuuri, Yuri, Anya, and Makkachin are safe.
> 
> Also, because I can't avoid POV switches to save my life, we will get to see Victor's POV here, too.
> 
> One last thing. If Net Neutrality is revoked in the U.S., American users like myself may get stuck paying fees to use this site. I will still be active here, but please be nice to other fic writers if they end up having limited access.
> 
> Map of tribute flight paths and battles [here](https://ibb.co/cNFbqR).
> 
> Mood music:  
> Get Out Alive – Three Days Grace  
> Clubbed to Death – The Matrix Soundtrack  
> Vampire Dance Club – Blade Soundtrack  
> Escape – Eagle Eye Soundtrack
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Yuri!!! on Ice or The Hunger Games. Just my anxiety.
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome.

Yuuri's consciousness was a minefield of memories. Seeing Anya on the floor evoked the scratchy image of every body, injured or dead or undecided, that he'd seen on screen while watching the Games. _I wasn't supposed to have to see any bodies yet. Anya didn't volunteer for this._

Yuuri just wanted to double over, vomit whatever was curdling in the acid of his stomach, and scream. Scream out his fear. Scream out his stress. Scream out his rage.

How dare they. _How dare they apprehend and beat Anya, with no charge, right before my eyes._

Yuuri felt a cold spike of realization, like icicles prodding his spine. _Someone wants me unsettled,_ he thought. _Someone wants me to unravel and fall. And wants Yuri and Victor to unravel after me._

Yuuri vowed that someone was going to be disappointed. That someone was going to grow _very familiar_ with disappointment in his last hours, before Yuuri and his friends made his regime and his world crash down about his ringing ears.

Yuuri slipped his dominant foot ahead and his secondary behind, toes and heel just shy of the barrier.

Part of him wanted to look at Yuri to see how he felt. Part of him wondered how long his hands had been clenched as if he were trying to crush his fears. Part of him wondered why Phichit's note warned of cold, when the air was balmy against the exposed skin of his face and neck.

“Don't,” he muttered aloud, hoping spoken words rang with more power, even if directed toward himself, with no one else to witness. “Don't get distracted. Yuri can look after himself. Focus.” Yuuri thought back to the last words Victor had spoken during their one-on-one sparring. Whispered quickly, but calmly while putting salve on their bruises earned like badges.

_When the Game starts, you can't sit down and plot. You have no time. Think fast, move faster. Never leave a blind spot open. Get what you need, and get away. Go with your instincts. Whatever you do, don't let your mind go blank._

Yuuri picked two targets to stare at when he ran. A white flag stuck in the grass at the base of the pillar. A tuft of red something atop a small boulder south of the pillar. Then Yuuri put his head down and blinked at the backpack awaiting him just a step off the round platform.

A cannon boomed in the distance. Yuuri barely heard it over the pounding in his ears. The pounding still didn't drown out the sounds of his own screams from earlier.

He dove forward like he was trying to jump over a ravine, scooping up the backpack without breaking stride. Then he slung the backpack over a shoulder and pumped his legs as hard as he could, still staring at the tuft of red. Green grass blurred by him on either side as he passed the red tuft on the boulder, closing in on the pillar riddled with cubbyholes.

His eyes flickered between a haphazard pile of maces and axes in the grass by the pillar's base, and an extra satchel in a cubbyhole roughly at eye-level. He also noted the vague shape of Chris and his powerful strides to his left. 

JJ and Georgi were the fastest runners, easily, but they were further away, and Yuuri was counting on them to be too busy fighting over swords. He didn't even need to glance behind him for Yuri; he could hear swearing loud and clear, even through the pounding in his ears.

He tried so hard to at least give Chris a run for his money, his legs wanted to collapse by the time he reached the pillar. Clenching his teeth, he ignored the stinging in his legs and lungs, and mentally promised to avoid over-exertion in future. 

He snatched the first medium mace and ax he could, cradling them in one hand with split fingers. He stepped forward to reach for the nondescript satchel in the cubbyhole. Something blurry was approaching his temple and cheekbone.

“Damn it all!”

He realized he had spoken just before he ducked a punch from Takeshi. _Well, he seems really eager to start our pre-determined fight,_ Yuuri thought, reaching for the satchel again and throwing the strap over his shoulder to jostle against the backpack. _I wish he'd given me a minute or two. Waited to find a machete first, instead of getting all excited and—_

Takeshi snatched up a machete from the next cubbyhole over, looking relieved that Yuuri hadn't grabbed it first. He swung with a wink. The machete blade was _huge_ , dwarfing Yuuri's axhead and mace. Yuuri wished he were far, far away.

Yuuri dropped the ax handle into his free right hand and raised the mace in his left to block the machete's edge. 

He was filled with an intense longing to conduit pain and fear elsewhere. To make those four enforcers taste Anya's suffering in her place. But he couldn't do that. All he could do was let loose his personal hell in his conflict with Takeshi.

If he could get past the tremors in his arms. _Get a grip, Yuuri. You got to make this look realistic!_ he berated himself.

Takeshi's balanced stance, bright gaze, and firm grip all spoke of cockiness and capability.

But Yuuri kept staring Takeshi down, eye to eye. Takeshi's flexing fingers, his teeth worrying his bottom lip, the sweat already drenching him from hairline to palms, gave him away. Takeshi was just as scared as he was. 

But Yuuri didn't feel any better. He was surprised he wasn't sweating. Maybe he was still too chilled by shock.

Yuuri knew he needed time and space to think now, to compose himself into something besides a twitching mess of worry and fear. Five or ten minutes would do wonders. But Takeshi was _in the way_.

Yuuri surged closer, mace still locked against the machete, and stomped down hard on Takeshi's left foot. Takeshi yelled, eyes widening. He probably had expected Yuuri to throw the machete wide with the force of his mace. 

Yuuri wasn't in a mood to rely on iron or steel so early in the Game – he wanted to save the flashy stuff. _Never to waste your best and most effective skills on the first fools_ , Victor had said. _You never knew how many tributes would be watching for it later._

Quickly he backed away, renewing his assessment of Takeshi's build. The older boy was husky, physique laced the promise of considerable arm and core strength when he filled out. Yuuri was no waif, either, but he was still much faster, and that was what he'd use most right here, right now.

Takeshi tried to draw his machete back for a strike across Yuuri's bellybutton, but Yuuri swerved out of the blade's path.

Takeshi must have already learned to read him, for the other boy seemed to sense that something about Yuuri was _way, way off._ Yuuri could practically feel his concern shown by raised eyebrows and scrunched-up nose. 

And Yuuri would take advantage of that, make it look good for the audience, make Figarello think whatever game he was playing was working.

Games, games, games. Yuuri was already sick of games, but determined to win them all, even if he didn't know the rules anymore, just the stakes. _Keep it together, keep it together._

“Katsudon! Come on!” Yuri yelled from somewhere behind him and to the left. He glanced aside, vaguely noting Yuri with supplies slung over each shoulder. Also Georgi running like a buck during mating season straight west. 

No one else was in sight. He could hear Mila shouting some kind of Amazon war cry from behind the other side of the pillar.

Satisfied, Yuuri ducked another swing of Takeshi's machete for his shoulder, and promptly ignored Yuri entirely. Takeshi's fist loomed from the other direction and clipped him along the jaw. _Not prompt enough,_ Yuuri thought, self-loathing lapping up again like a tide. Takeshi was not going easy on him, and for that Yuuri was grateful.

Takeshi was trying to rein the machete back for another strike. But Yuuri had already rooted in the ground with the head of his ax, and flicked a clod of dirt and turf in Takeshi's face.

He wove back and forth before Takeshi, swooping beneath or around the path of the machete. He kicked Takeshi's legs or hips, often narrowly missing the groin as a point, then drawing back. Takeshi roared in frustration. Yuuri was just grateful he hadn't gotten himself stabbed yet.

Yuuri imagined he was kicking the snot out of the four enforcers from earlier. It was satisfying, though a bit silly that he was using a proxy. Takeshi was his ally, and had he seen what Yuuri had seen, would be happy to join in the punishment. 

Yuuri's hands still trembled. A traitorous voice in the back of his mind assured him he'd always be pathetic. It sounded like a blend of Figarello's and Yuri's voices.

Yuuri hesitated a fraction of a second, and that's all Takeshi needed. Takeshi's aim improved with his anger. Yuuri watched machete blade close in like an old friend. He shifted back, but the sharp edge still grazed Yuuri's arm, scraping off a bit of mesh fabric and skin, letting a little blood that looked almost black under the sunlight. 

Yuuri could feel the inhibitions still intact begin to drain out of him with the blood. 

Yuuri brought his ax down fast, thankful for his control, which he didn't know if he'd have in five minute's time. If he didn't get away, he'd either rage or panic. _Hang on, hang on, hang on._

Takeshi fell backwards in his haste to avoid the ax blade. Yuuri was relieved; the swing of his ax only cut shallow slits along Takeshi's left forearm and thigh. He had inflicted the injury required of him, without hurting Takeshi badly. Droplets of red greeted the grass blades, but they were few. 

Yuri screamed at him again, and this time, Yuuri listened. Yuuri shifted both ax and mace to his left hand and turned to follow him. Together they bolted southwest, dodging piles of boxes, satchels, and weapons that no one had gathered yet. He couldn't remember if southwest was the direction assigned to them originally. Phichit's note from Celestino hadn't confirmed.

“Next time, don't take so damn long!” Yuri sniped once they had covered about a hundred yards.

“Don't wait if you don't—”

Yuuri heard a tell-tale whistling several feet to his left, and veered right, closer to Yuri. Sure enough, he heard a squelching thunk. Turning, he spotted a spear jutting out at a low angle from the ground, water slowly dribbling out from around the spot the shaft pierced the grass.

_So much for getting away quickly. I'm sorry, Victor._

Yuuri ground to a halt, shucking the satchel and the backpack as he stared behind him. He instinctively knew he'd need to be lighter this time. Takeshi was loping toward them, glad to have their attention, his mouth set in grim determination. 

“What are you doing, Katsu—”

Transferring the ax to his right hand, Yuuri interrupted, “Don't wait. Find a strategic base camp. Go!”

He had many questions buzzing in his mind. His listed and dismissed them as fast as he could, while he watched Takeshi close in with heavy steps. 

Why was there so much water beneath the manmade grass? Irrelevant. Why had Takeshi aimed the spear so low and off-target? He wanted attention, not damage. Also irrelevant. Why was Yuuri shaking all over? Now that was relevant. Yuuri didn't like it. He had a full-body itch to throw himself at something and watch it crack. 

“You're stubborn as hell, dumbass!” he heard Yuri call out. “Don't come crying to me if he cuts you in half!” He hoped Yuri was running, but he didn't dare look away from Takeshi, now standing right in front of him.

“I've never had a fight that ended in a draw, Yuuri,” said Takeshi, arm coiling for a strike, machete gleaming. Yuuri could have sworn it looked sharper now. He had to act fast.

Yuuri's ax nearly knocked the machete out of Takeshi's hand. Metal sang. The pain of the blow stung all the way up to Yuuri's shoulder. 

“That's better. How are you supposed to show up Victor if you don't fight?” Takeshi asked. Yuuri was about to ask him if he wanted to argue, rather than actually fight. But Takeshi lunged, machete slicing in a level arc toward Yuuri's navel, and Yuuri forgot about talking. 

Yuuri jumped back and deflected the sweep of steel with his mace.

He wasn't going to go with chucking little heaps of dirt and grass at Takeshi this time.

Now was the time to make an impression. Not just for the audience. For Takeshi as well. 

Takeshi shouldn't have tried for Takeshi vs. Yuuri: Round 2. Yuuri didn't know if Takeshi was trying to salvage pride, or if he was afraid to raise suspicion if he accepted defeat so quickly.

He did know Takeshi made a grave mistake.

A quick glance assured him that Yuri had left, and no one else was around to interrupt. The green almost made Yuuri think of the alfalfa fields back home.

Takeshi's fist advanced, but Yuuri forced him draw back with a wave of his ax. Yuuri channeled his momentum in a pivot to the side, putting more distance between him and Takeshi's range of motion. “You know you can outdo Victor, though you pretend you don't,” said Takeshi quietly. 

For a second, Yuuri believed he wasn't speaking to entertain the audience, but that he wanted to appeal to Yuuri and Yuuri alone. Takeshi's lips quirked in a mocking smile. “You're a damned bombshell, and you know it. Let it out, let it go.”

“Nishigori,” Yuuri said, swinging ax again in a feint, then mace in an actual strike that slipped underneath the machete, but missed Takeshi's hip. “I'd rather _not_.”

Before Takeshi could lash out with fist or blade, Yuuri grazed the other boy's shoulder with the mace. The mace's ridges ripped off a piece of Takeshi's suit, puncturing the skin. Yuuri didn't feel satisfaction; only increased anxiety and anger. Keep it together! Keep it together! he chanted to himself.

Maybe Yuuri felt more on edge because Takeshi wasn't supposed to contest him twice. There was supposed to be grazes on both sides. Check. There was supposed to be animosity. Check. But spear-throwing? Takeshi had changed the Game, and Yuuri did not like surprises that involved pointy objects that could kill a man.

“Come on, come on, Yuuri,” said Takeshi. Yuuri swung the ax up in an arc from knee to temple, forcing Takeshi back further to keep his uniform and skin intact. “Stop holding back like you're a wimp.” 

Takeshi swung, and Yuuri brought the ax down again, nicking the tip of the machete before him and halting its progress. The vibrations made his hand ache, but he only clenched down harder, then withdrew. 

Takeshi beat his chest with his free hand. “I'm not believing your nice-little-boy act. We're all beasts here. Time for the claws!”

_Takeshi, what are you doing?!_ Yuuri wondered. _I don't have to pretend to be scared or upset. Why are you making this harder?_

Poised and fast, Yuuri kept up a rhythm, weaving and ducking and closing in like a snake. He was faster, much faster, now that he'd shed the extra weight of the backpack and satchel. Takeshi was weighed down with two packs on his back, and still putting up a decent fight. Yuuri seethed. The itch to maim spread gooseflesh along his limbs.

He had felt intense fear, and nothing else, when simulating the Games with Victor. Now he felt some fear, but mostly aggression for the sake of conflict, steeped and stoked by turns with his rage. 

And this crawling infection felt so alien to him. It was very much a part of him, and yet a part he had never been confidant to before. Like someone had portioned off a part of his mind in a book, then opened the book so he could read lost memories. 

As if Rip Van Winkle had realized he'd been awake the whole time, just forgotten two hundred years, and suddenly want to blow everything and everyone up.

Yuuri just had to hold a little back for the finale, and hope the finale wasn't too far off. He wasn't sure if his rage could stay at a simmer for much longer.

“You aren't Victor,” Takeshi went on. “Did you notice he always tried to shied away from conflict in the Games?”

Takeshi angled his machete to strike like an uppercut, so Yuuri pivoted and batted the machete with his mace again.

_Stop it! Seriously, what are you_ doing _? I've been trying so hard to make Victor look stronger, you're undoing everything!_

Yuuri wasn't sure why Takeshi was taunting him. Takeshi was a bit mischievous, definitely the type to tease. But he didn't strike Yuuri as _vicious_.

Takeshi must have a reason for acting out of his own nature, out of turn in general. The possibilities made Yuuri's brain want to quit.

Yuuri struck with mace and ax by turns, forcing Takeshi to lock himself into defense and keep his machete at odd angles. _Maybe if I keep him busy, he'll shut the hell up_.

Yuuri pressed forward while flicking his ax wrist, catching the machete blade on a groove of the mace and pivoting the blade just enough to make Takeshi withdraw. _A blade off-balance was more dangerous to its wielder than no blade at all._ Victor said that sometime, perhaps. 

With a frustrated howl, Takeshi angled his machete blade up down toward the earth and presented the flat side, barreling forward. Yuuri, unable to catch the edge of the blade, backpedaled while pushing against the flat of the blade with his mace. Takeshi took advantage of the momentum shift to finally draw his machete back for a full power swing at Yuuri's head.

Yuuri threw himself to the ground, mindful to keep the axhead well away from his face.

“Everybody said Victor was such a kind champion, sparing other tributes as long as he could,” said Takeshi. Yuuri rolled away to avoid being kicked in the ribs.

As he sprang back to his feet, Yuuri thought back to two young girls in Victor's second Game. Victor had covered for them, fighting against an older girl with a spear. Or the boy with a wounded leg in the fourth Game, who picked up a package of dried jerky that Victor “accidentally” dropped. 

All of them had ended up dead, of course; Victor's kindness didn't buy them more than a couple hours.

He barely noticed his own mace swinging for Takeshi's ankles, forcing Takeshi to fling himself down face-first and kiss the grass. 

Yuuri pictured those four enforcers closing in upon Anya. He wished the glass panes hadn't stopped him from intervening. Even if just to distract so Anya could run. Or so they could bowl the enforcers over and run away together. She battled killer heels every day, she'd run no matter what shape she was in, so long as her legs could move.

He didn't know if someone else had intervened after he ascended. Or if the enforcers stopped themselves and Anya had gotten away. He may not know until someone busted a hole in the arena so the tributes could trickle out.

He let his mind meander to that moment, when he felt so helpless. He always felt helpless, the only exception: volunteering for Victor. God, was helplessness a drag.

Yuuri would take that feeling and drive it out of his chest, even if he had to carve out his own ribs.

Takeshi would make a pretty good scapegoat, so long as Yuuri held back _just a little_. The fact that Takeshi had a machete with such good range would keep Yuuri from getting too confident. Otherwise, poor Takeshi would be _so embarrassed_.

Taunting Takeshi would have to do for now. “You should have accepted the draw earlier,” Yuuri said.

Takeshi spit grass from his face, shedding one of his packs as he ducked Yuuri's ax. Lumbering to his feet and diverting Yuuri's mace with the flat of his machete, he went on, “Five time champion. More like five-time sham. What a colossal joke! The only tributes who ever died by Victor's hand were the ones who wouldn't let him slink away. He wasn't sparing them. He was sparing himself.”

Maybe when hell froze over, Yuuri would forgive. Would understand what possessed Takeshi to imply the shadow of someone Yuuri loved, who only weathered walking nightmares because of those _he_ loved, was craven and selfish.

Not today. Today Yuuri was possessed, and he was done with doubt and fear. And holding back. No good deed went unpunished in the Capitol—Yuuri would see the bad ones were remembered with whispers of awe and dread.

Yuuri would not fucking keep it together anymore.

Takeshi wouldn't suffer _too_ much—he would be needed in one piece for after they broke free from the arena. But he'd learn to never impugn a champion again.

Yuuri dropped the mace into the grass at his side, put both hands round the haft of the ax, and brought the ax down upon Takeshi's machete with all the force he could muster. Takeshi was distracted by the falling mace, unable to avoid the blow, yelling in pain at the jarring tingles in his hands and arms.

All coherent thought drained from Yuuri, like colors from the sunset once the sun disappeared.

He didn't realize he struck twice more in the space of about three heartbeats. Not until he heard Takeshi scream louder, and watched the machete fall from his shaking hands. He vaguely understood his own palms were smarting like never before. He didn't care.

_One._ Yuuri landed a sickening punch to Takeshi's left shoulder, throwing him off balance.

_Two._ Yuuri brought all his weight in both feet down on Takeshi's right foot.

_Three._ Yuuri kicked Takeshi's left leg out from under him, grabbing his ankle as Takeshi fell and wrenching it hard. Takeshi screamed even louder.

_Four._ Yuuri snatched Takeshi's right arm as he hit the ground, and with one clean, precise wrench, dislocated his shoulder.

_Five._ Yuuri landed one, and one punch only, on Takeshi's flabbergasted face. Crouching, he said, “You're lucky Victor only had five games. If it were six, my next move would've been to kick you in the nuts so hard, you'd never have children.” 

Takeshi just stared at him with comically wide eyes, the regret obvious as the bruises spreading across his face. _On second thought, maybe one more kick wouldn't be a bad idea . . ._

“Holy shit, Katsudon!”

Yuuri's head jerked up to look at Yuri, vaguely confused about why Yuri had circled back.

“Come on, we got to go! Leave him!”

Yuuri was reluctant to abandon the one scenario where he bore the upper hand. But something nagged him that Yuri was right. Without a parting glance Takeshi's way, he snatched up his ax and packs and ran after Yuri.

After a few moments of running, Yuri slowed his pace at the point where both of them began to tire. “Are you hurt?” Yuri asked, after gulping in several mouthfuls of air. 

Yuuri took a deep breath, dispelling a thousand thoughts through his lungs and willing them to trouble him no more. He slung his packs and weapons down upon the ground, mindful to keep distance from the three snares nearest his own two feet.

“Katsudon?” Yuri pressed. In the corner of his eye, Yuuri caught him scanning for gashes.

“Nothing to cry over,” said Yuuri.

Yuuri threw down the mace at arm's length and the ax a skip away, then tore the velcro of the flap keeping the backpack shut. He had a pretty good idea of the standard issue contents—they were nearly the same every Game. But so long as there was a fool's hope of gold hidden somewhere, he would explore every option. Well, more like obsess over every option with unnecessary fretting.

Yuuri would fabricate his own charm out of wits, will, and wishes, if he had to do so. 

The backpack yielded no secrets or treasures. One net, one dagger, one smoke bomb, one coil of rope, just as he had expected. Plenty of empty room to stash anything he picked up along the way. Yuuri felt personally insulted.

“What the fuck happened?” Yuri asked.

After a moment's pause, Yuuri's mind reeled back to Yuri's reaction to his fight, and realized that he must have Yuri worried sick. Or as sick as a walking case of stomach cramps could be.

“Takeshi was an ass,” said Yuuri.

Yuri smirked. “So you whooped him. Way to come through last minute. Now I can get serious, too.”

_But it's not last minute,_ Yuuri thought, stomach roiling. _Everybody outside of this arena just found out our liaison is a sore subject with me, and we've only just begun._

He could still feel a deep-seated rage and a vindictive longing, coursing through him like electricity waiting for the right time to strike.

* * *

“Victor!” Yakov's voiced boomed. Victor yanked his head up from studying the oblong platinum links adorning his cuffs, eyes reluctantly wandering the gilded room.

Black couches, arranged in strange geometric shapes, competed for his attention. The Gamemasters clogged the best refreshment tables, Figarello in their midst like a boil festering over a rash. The liaisons, the sponsors, and the stylist assistants all gathered together, so many pieces on a board without rhyme or reason.

He finally locked gazes with Yakov. One foot on the step of a small platform, Yakov waved a honey-golden tumbler vaguely at a tassled sword guarding a giant bottle of red wine atop a table. “Will you do the honors?” Yakov yelled at him.

Victor knew it didn't matter what he wanted—it mattered what he could offer.

He smiled and skittered like a dancer past slacks and skirts and mounted the podium, taking his place at the table. He waited with baited breath until the room hushed. Satisfied, he let the sword fall in a clean, level arc to sunder the bottle at the neck. Victor wished he could throw caution to the wind and wink at Figarello with a weapon in hand. He settled for squeezing the pommel like the hand of an old friend, then kissing the flat of the blade like it was Yuuri's face.

The stylist for Sector 6 caught the falling bottleneck with a dainty gloved hand. She was the only lead stylist present, since Yuuko was the only liaison who insisted on seeing her tribute off.

It felt surreal, wielding a sword before the Game even begun, only to set it aside immediately. Five consecutive years before this, he had been running swiftly in search of swords, bows, and anything else that wasn't tied down. Now he steeling himself for hours upon hours of sitting on a couch without fidgeting with phantom arrows.

Figarello and the Gamemasters waved and cooed at him, then left via elevator to watch the proceedings from their private suite. Victor felt his heartbeat calming slightly in the comfort of their absence.

Makkachin threaded through the doting guests to rejoin him at the base of the podium. Victor bent down to pat her head, praising her for not filching any _hors d'oeurves_. The last thing he needed was her getting food poisoning from chocolate or something. “Stay by daddy's side, girl,” he whispered in one floppy ear. Makkachin woofed and panted quietly. Victor noticed something white sticking out from beneath her collar.

Fear made his throat close and his chest constrict, as if under a python's coils. Was someone trying to hurt his dog? Whispering for her to stay still, he carefully lifted the collar. He felt his breath returning as a scrap of white paper fell into his open palm. A note, only a note.

He closed his hand and leaped back to his feet in a show of excitement, hearing Yakov calling for him again.

“Victor! Get your ass over here!”

The liaisons were huddling on the connected couches near the largest screen. Victor led Makkachin toward a seat left open next to a woman, Minako, he thought her name was. He was glad there was another seat next to him, open for Anya to sit with him when she returned. Swathes of green grass filled the screen, as multiple angles displayed the empty platforms in groupings of three or four.

_They won't be empty for long._

As soon as he sat down, Minako raised her glass of wine with a nod, as if toasting him ominously. 

Quietly, with eyes darting back to the screens every few seconds, Victor motioned Makkachin to sit by his knee, and he covertly smoothed out and read the note while pretending to dote on her.

_Аня in danger. Trying to help her. Be ready to flee. Take care, survive._

Victor tried and failed to suppress full body tremors. _Аня_ was the Cyrillic reading of _Anya_ – but no one was supposed to be able to read Cyrillic anymore. He and Yuri and Yuri's grandfather were the only ones in Sector 7 retaining that skill. Who else knew?

He glanced round the room. Yakov was still present, emptying his tumbler with grim determination. Lilia, however, was absent. He hoped that Lilia was seeing Yuuri off in Anya's place. He couldn't bear the thought of Yuuri standing in a tube alone with the impassive guards. He itched to run to Yuuri and trace hearts on the plexiglass between them.

Victor's throat felt like sandpaper. Somehow he slipped the note into his mouth, then washed it down with a glass of red wine handed to him by Minako. Sector 6's mute stylist filled it again before he could finish. 

Victor's stomach sloshed, filled with unease without name or face. He reached to pat Makkachin. He was used to unease being tied to Figarello's face . . . or that a rival tribute. This was a new breed of hell.

Onscreen, the crowns of the platforms slid aside like mechanical jaws. Victor felt his hackles rising, and Makkachin's hackles rose in response. Both Yuuri and Yuri were wild-eyed, hands fisted at their sides to conceal tremors. He couldn't tell if they were instinctively imitating what he used to do in the Games, or it was just coincidence. 

Victor's imagination ran rampant, wondering what happened to shake them both so badly. Memories fought for center stage. Soon all he could see were the faces of dead tributes clawing at the arms of his friends, almost blocking out Yuuri setting himself into a runner's stance.

Makkachin nudged his leg. He blinked and willed the demons away for a few more moments.

Victor's vision cleared, the cannon blasted, and every tribute tried to morph into a human bullet. Yuuri and Yuri wasted no breath nor movement, limbs fluid and focus honed. Victor felt an ache of despairing pride.

The first scuffle to begin was Christophe Giacometti vs. Mickey Crispino. Mickey made himself look very sharp, singling Chris out for fisticuffs before they even approached the weapon stashes. The two of them circled round and round, trading punches and ducks and kicks.

Sara Crispino sped past without a backward glance at her brother. She was the first tribute to find twin axes. Nabbing a bag of what looked like food between her teeth, she dashed south again – only to run into Mila instead of Mickey. She dropped the food, bending backwards to avoid Mila's swinging mace.

All of the other tributes did their best to avoid each other, snatch the first useful things in reach, and run away in different directions.

Both of Victor's charges found their weapons without much fuss. Yuuri's transition from equipping himself to fighting with Takeshi was seamless. Victor let out a soft sigh, relieved that Yuuri's strikes didn't look rehearsed at all. But also bemoaning that Yuuri's timidity was obvious, skittering around Takeshi like a moth testing out shadows. 

The words “BLEEDING HEART” in neon above Yuuri's head might have been less subtle.

Yuuko abruptly plopped down in the empty spot next to him and Makkachin. If he remembered right, she was the liaison Yuuri had the strongest ties to, after Celestino and himself. He felt his free hand being squeezed. He tore his eyes away from Yuuri, who was flinging dirt clods this way and that, to stare at Yuuko. 

She shot him a gentle but tight-lipped look of goodwill and good luck. Victor felt his pulse spike in alarm. 

Yes, Yuuko must be worried for everyone, especially Takeshi. Rumor touted them as unofficially engaged. But her eyes held a desperate wish to trade reassurances. He passed his wineglass to Yuuko, vaguely trusting she was past the legal age of eighteen. She looked at it longingly, but passed it back.

They both looked back at the screen to watch Yuuri tear away from Takeshi. She kept squeezing his hand till his fingers lost feeling. It grounded them both, or so Victor thought.

Victor tipped his head in confusion as he watched Takeshi give chase to Yuuri and Yuri onscreen. _Another fight?_ Victor thought. _That wasn't part of the plan, are they switching to improv now? Isn't it a little early in the Game for that?_

He didn't even realize he had jumped to his feet at the sound of Takeshi's taunting until he heard Makkachin barking. He looked down and blinked at his pet. Yuuko, hand still squeezing his fingers, nudged his shoulder sympathetically and subtly jerked her head to signal he should take his seat again.

“I'm sorry,” said Yuuko, her voice even gentler than usual as they both sank into the velvet. “He's taking a very . . . upsetting stance here, but he's trying to help all of us.”

Victor couldn't understand how calling him a sham could help anyone. Of course, he _was_ a sham. A hollow vessel moving itself because there was only one string leading him, and Figarello yanked it only when Victor misbehaved.

But Takeshi's words hurt more than anything Figarello had uttered. There were such a perfect mirror of the loathing and futility that made Victor's soul its home.

Victor's jaw dropped as he watched Yuuri become all-but unhinged. There was a darkness, a nigh-possessed spirit, which Victor had never witnessed in Yuuri's mahogany-red eyes. It was . . . incredibly flattering to know such passionate fury ignited for Victor's sake. It may not be the passion he wanted, but Victor was desperate enough for whatever Yuuri was willing to impart.

Yuuko gasped with each blow that fell. Victor was shocked at the giggle that escaped him when Yuuri casually threatened Takeshi's family jewels.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered to Yuuko.

Yuuko let out a long breath and squeezed his hand again. “It's okay,” she said, as they were both glued to the screen watching Yuri and Yuuri beat a retreat. “He deserved all of that. Maybe more. Even if Yuuri had kicked him, it doesn't matter. I'm already pregnant.”

Now Victor gasped and jerked to the side to stare at her. Yuuko felt his eyes and returned his gaze, only to turn beet red upon realizing she had spoken aloud. “Please, don't tell anyone I said that. I haven't told anyone yet, not even Takeshi. I . . . I just found out yesterday, and I couldn't bear to . . .”

Victor responded by squeezing her hand. It took a minute, but she recovered quickly.

“I really meant it when I said he was trying to help,” she went on, in a low voice. “On his way to his pod, Takeshi passed the four enforcers and heard them talking about Anya. He's trying to make you seem less of a threat to Figarello, and make Yuuri look more like a loose canon. Figarello worries most about level-headed thinkers. Takeshi wants to make neither Yuuri nor you seem level-headed enough to be conspiring with Anya.”

Victor wasn't sure he grasped everything she was trying to say. “So . . . Anya would have been worse off if he hadn't—”

“Yes,” said Yuuko. “When I saw him off, instead of this romantic speech he'd prepared, he told me to send Lilia and Celestino suited up to retrieve her. He thought they were just going to arrest her and lock her up . . .”

“How are we going to keep Anya safe, then? Figarello's not just going to assume she's in a cell and ignore her for the rest of the Game,” said Victor. He glanced around the room, noting for the first time that Celestino was nowhere to be seen.

Yuuko squirmed. “Apparently, Figarello didn't care what happened to her, so long as someone reported back that a little bird would never sing tunes to the rebels again.”

Victor felt his veins turn to ice. “So who . . .”

“Lilia contacted Cao Bin herself with the comm link, saying Anya had been dispatched with a fatal electric pulse to the heart. Cao Bin probably passed the news on to Figarello.”

“Cao Bin provided you the lead enforcer suits, didn't he?” Victor asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Yuuko, giggling behind her well-manicured hand. “He gave Yakov a layout of the entire facility. Celestino and Lilia stole the code to open the door to the suit storage area. I really don't know if Cao Bin anticipated everything we'd do with the information. We're still not 100% sure of him just yet. Which is why Lilia wanted to gauge his reaction to Anya's supposed death.”

“What was Cao Bin's reaction?” Victor asked.

“He didn't react,” Yuuko sighed. She paused and accepted a glass of juice from the stylist of Sector 6, waiting until the stylist was a few paces away to continue. 

Victor noticed Lilia had returned when no one was looking. He eyed the double doors at the entrance, and saw Celestino, not a hair out of place in his wavy ponytail, stride in laughing with a potential sponsor. 

“We're not even sure if Cao realized Anya was working with all of us,” Yuuko went on. “The only person Cao Bin has had contact with is Yakov. That's why the rest of us are doing the running around. Yakov has to stay put.”

They watched in silence as Yuuri and Yuri ran, then set up a temporary camp together. Sara, already with many shallow wounds on her legs and torso, landed a final strike, opening a long gash along the back of Mila's shoulder. Mila shrieked and recoiled at the pain, and Sara took the chance to haul ass and continue south. Mila half-shuffled, half-limped off toward the east and Georgi, giving the pillar a wide berth in case anyone was still there. Mickey, nursing a sprained wrist (or so it appeared), skulked away from his fight with Christophe in pursuit of Sara. 

Once it seemed that the first round of fighting had died down, Victor whispered a request to be taken to Anya. He then tracked and downed yet another glass of wine, welcoming the bubbly feeling, even if it wasn't enough to affect him much. Not after drinking copious amounts of vodka almost every day. He then waved a smooch at a particularly friendly sponsor, offering his apologies for leaving for the restroom.

He waited ten minutes by the restroom doors, Makkachin panting quietly by his side, before Yuuko appeared, Lilia in tow. 

“We'll have to be quick Nikiforov, or we'll be missed,” Lilia warned him.

Victor nodded.

Lilia led him and Yuuko and Makkachin down a few hallways before entering a half-empty service closet. They had to crowd to fit so Lila should lock the door behind them. Victor instructed Makkachin to stay quiet.

Anya lay under a blanket atop broken cushions and folded coats. Her left eye was a black mass, her lips were busted open in three places, and there was a hastily bandaged gash along her hairline by her right temple.

“This is awfully close to our screen room,” said Victor, eyebrows raised in Lilia's direction.

“This was the best we could do on short notice,” said Lilia sourly. “Plus, we don't have time to meander for halls for 20 minutes to keep checking on her.”

Victor nodded to concede the point.

“I'm so, so sorry, Anya,” said Yuuko as she knelt by Anya's side and stroked her hair. Makkachin looked like she wanted to whine, but stayed silent like the good girl that she was.

Anya cleared her throat. “Don't be. Save your energy; you'll need it if we gotta bust the tributes out early.” She looked to Victor, reading his unspoken question about what happened to her. She sighed and shifted, grunting at the pain. “I'm lucky they didn't bother to search me first,” she said. 

“They probably assumed you didn't have any pockets,” Victor quipped.

Anya smiled briefly. “My correspondence must have been compromised, but I don't know how much. All I know for sure is that they think I'm working alone with the rebels. 

“I'm very glad Yuuri never had a chance to strike up a deal with me before this, or else I think the Capitol would know all the liaisons and tributes are rebels, too.”

“Is there anything else we need to know? We should get back soon,” said Yuuko, glancing at the door, as if it were a clock counting down to the moment guards might begin to look for them.

“Act clueless and nonchalant,” said Anya. “Don't pretend you don't notice I'm gone—but don't act concerned, either. Just . . . assume I'm off sewing or flirting or something.”

“You _are_ a terrible flirt,” said Yuuko playfully. “All you had to do was ignore that Popovich boy, and he was all yours.”

“What an airhead,” Anya said, abandoning a chuckle halfway with a pained wheeze.

“He really likes you, you know,” said Victor patiently. Georgi was a bit over-the-top, but Victor was inclined to sympathize with over-the-top affection that wouldn't be returned.

“What an obsessive airhead,” said Anya.

“Rest well, Anya,” said Lilia, which was her way of saying they were going _now_. “I can't guarantee I can find out who those four bastards were quickly—but I will do what I can without raising suspicion.”

Anya smiled. “They're as good as dead, then.”

Victor and Yuuko were inclined to agree.

* * *

Yuuri took a deep breath dispelling a thousand thoughts through his lungs and willing them to trouble him no more. He slung his packs and weapons down upon the ground, mindful to keep distance from the three snares nearest his own two feet.

“Katsudon?” Yuri pressed. He still seemed to think Yuuri needed to talk about what happened with Takeshi.

Yuuri ignored him. He threw down the mace at arm's length and the ax a skip away, tearing the velcro of the flap holding shut the backpack. He had a pretty good idea of the standard issue contents—they were nearly the same every Game. But so long as there was even a fool's hope that some gold was hidden, he would explore every option. 

Well, more like obsess over every option with unnecessary fretting. Yuuri would fabricate his own charm out of wits, will, and wishes if he had to. 

The backpack yielded no secrets or treasures. Yuuri felt personally insulted. 

“What did you get?” he asked Yuri, glancing at the two backpacks Yuri was carrying for the first time. He stretched, then laid down along the grass, determined to unwind as best he could. They were in for a lull of at least one hour, maybe two, if everybody stuck to script.

Yuri opened his mouth, but instead of words, all Yuuri heard was a ringing blast, echoing from somewhere behind him. Southeast, maybe. He sprang to his feet, looking all around them movement. All was still and serene, save him and Yuri.

“Was that a—” Yuri began.

“Yes,” said Yuuri. He sank to his knees, thinking a mile a minute, ears straining for the slightest of sounds. Was he imagining things? He could have sworn he heard a gunshot. Guns were scare in Sector 7, and he had only heard the sound of a gun going off once before. A gunshot to signal the start of a footrace. The sound had made all the runners and most of the spectators jump and clutch at their hearts.

Guns had always been banned at the Games. No one, not Gamemaster, not sponsor, not spectator, stood to gain boon or sport if someone with a gun mowed down all his opponents within minutes.

“Do you think someone got bored and stashed guns at the pillar for somebody to grab?” Yuri asked.

Yuuri had no idea what to think.

* * *

Victor, Lilia, and Yuuko braced themselves upon reentering the screen room. Victor had a cute excuse waiting on his lips. It promptly died as he realized that nobody cared. Pandemonium reigned as assistants flew back and forth, sponsors gasped and wailed, and Celestino tried to comfort a misty-eyed Minako.

Makkachin, no longer under a command of silence, barked and barked. They overheard another stylist telling the mute Sector 6 stylist that tracking device malfunctions were unheard of in the Games.

Victor was rushing toward the screens before he knew what he was about, vaguely aware of Makkachin's pattering feet at his heels and Minako yelling for justice.

Half the screens were looping on automatic replay. Seung-Gil, eyes more steely than ever and jaw clenched, ignoring his teammate Guang-Hong, instead setting up a complex system of snares around the grassy ditch they made their lair. Then Seung-Gil's eyes suddenly widening as he jumped forward and shoved Guang-Hong down. The sound of a gunshot splitting the air with a static crack, and blood erupting from Seung-Gil's temple.

Victor's blood chilled as he looked at the other screens and realized they had a visual on only half of the tributes. _Where are the others?_

He didn't see Yuuri or Yuri anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I hate this chapter's guts. Something is missing, hell if I know what. The fights SUCK because I didn't do enough research. Too much internal monologuing (thanks, Yuuri). Thank you all for sticking around! Onward!
> 
> -I've been using yards and pounds in this story out of habit. Then it hit me that the metric system (which everybody but America uses) would make more sense, what with Sarcon being an inter-continental dystopia. So . . . I adapted. Sarcon has forced everybody under its rule to adopt the English, also called Imperial, system. Moral: sometimes your mistakes actually enrich the story?
> 
> -Instead of Eros!Yuuri, we get Mad as Hell!Yuuri.
> 
> -Eagle Eye is a majorly underrated suspense movie. 
> 
> -Did Takeshi saying “let it go” = Frozen reference? Did Yuuri thinking “no good deed goes unpunished” = Wicked reference? HELL YES. Elphaba is so much fun. And Elsa has helped me deal with my inner demons (before Yuuri took over my life).
> 
> -Remember the recurring “I was trying to get you there, man!” line in _Suicide Squad_? Takeshi hijacked that concept before I knew what he was doing. Please don't hate him for trying to fire Yuuri up? 
> 
> -Apparently opening champagne and wine bottles with a sword is a thing? Naturally, I needed a scene with Victor being extra like that. Sector 6's stylist is the unnamed girl in canon who composed Yuuri's free skate theme. I really hope we learn more about her in canon.
> 
> -I have a headcanon that Yakov swears when he thinks his skaters aren't listening.
> 
> -HOLY CRAP STAR WARS!!!


	5. Chapter FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes within the arena, and the rebels outside, scramble to find out who is the maverick with a gun--and if there is more than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the 9, no, 10 MONTH LONG delay. Anxiety/depression kicked my ass. If you're still reading . . . holy crap, thank you for sticking with this fic! This chapter gutted me, but writing through grief and sadness has been cathartic this week. Bring tissues, lovelies.
> 
> Please vote in the comments for who (Victor, Yuuri, Yurio) should finish off our villain. I can't decide, so I'll leave it to you guys. Each user can vote once.
> 
> I changed the chapter count to 9 because this chapter was such a pain, I decided to split it. Chapter 6 will also be a beast; so it probably won't be up till late October/early November.
> 
> Special thanks to Rhoda_Night for pointing out duplicate paragraphs in Chapter 4. Fixing that after this update posts, plus spelling/grammar errors in previous chapters.
> 
> To manage my stress, I started a Star Trek AU fic where EVERYBODY lives (even the redshirts). Link is in the end note.
> 
> WHO'S FUCKING PUMPED FOR ICE ADOLESCENCE 2019?!?!
> 
> Comment tally received (ignoring my own replies) is 30. As of today, I've donated $30 to Puerto Rico hurricane relief. And $10 to Texas Harvey relief (rounded up from one commenter's request). Thank you all! I will continue to send donations to Puerto Rico relief with incoming comments. (I'm still hearing conflicting reports that power is/is not fully restored. Ye gods. It's already been a year!) If you have loose change, please consider donating to Puerto Rico relief, or ongoing Harvey relief, or Florence relief, or to support for immigrant/asylum-seeking families separated after entering the US.
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Yuri!!! on Ice or The Hunger Games. Just my anxiety.
> 
> Mood music:
> 
> Returner – GACKT (lyrics translation here: http://moon-struck.net/lyrics/returner/)  
> Zombie – The Cranberries  
> The Arena – Lindsey Stirling  
> Ladders – Eagle Eye Soundtrack  
> A Shot in the Dark – Within Temptation  
> You Say Run - My Hero Academia OST  
> 

Five minutes after the sound of a gunshot froze the blood in their veins, both boys from Sector 7 were still silent. Yuuri struggled with every shuddering breath, trying to bottle up his terror. He cast his eyes over the folded net from his backpack, counting the threads methodically.

“At least it will be quick if we get done in,” said Yuri, once he could speak. His voice rasped as if he hadn't used it in a year. Yuuri noticed him tapping the comm-jamming knife under his suit. “Victor thinks there's a hidden door at the edge of the arena. Fair warning, if we're ever separated, you'll find me knocking for it along the walls.”

Yuuri tried to ignore his pessimism. “You got any new plans?” he asked.

The younger boy shook his head, as if he could shake up his thoughts to keep his brain from flatlining with fear. “All I can say is this: no exploring. If death wants us, he'll have to move his ass here.” Yuri stretched out to set one last snare around their perimeter for good measure. “What about you, Katsudon?”

“Move when we don't have any more water,” said Yuuri. “I'm not dying of thirst, or fighting anyone dehydrated.” He remembered the water (or it seemed to be water, at least) oozing out of the ground around the javelin shaft from earlier—but he wasn't going to try drinking it just yet.

Yuri huffed, rolled his eyes, and went back to his snare. Within moments, though, his fingers started trembling. Yuuri caught the other boy watching him, the same way Mari would when she thought Yuuri was in mental or physical pain.

Yuuri stared at Yuri's concerned blue-green eyes for a moment. “I don't suppose you have a bulletproof vest in either of your backpacks?” he asked, half-joking.

Yuri shook his head, clucking his tongue in annoyance. “Bad enough we have to worry about swords cleaving us in two,” Yuri said. “Now we got bullets flying around? And what really happened with that Takeshi dude, anyway? You deflected earlier. I'm an ass all the time, and you never went apeshit on me like _that_.” 

It was obvious his friend needed a distraction. He looked as if he wanted to take Yuuri's face, plant it in the ground, and use it as the focal point of his next snare.

“Takeshi baited me, and I fell for it,” said Yuuri, not interested in giving Yuri a play-by-play. Even after Yuri admitting, for the first time in his life, that he was an ass.

“Dumbass,” said Yuri. Judging by Yuri's amused tone, Yuuri chose to take it as a backhanded endearment.

Yuuri reloaded his own backpack and then all-but tore apart his satchel, hoping most for water and weapons. It yielded one small crowbar, eight packs of crackers, a full water flask, two packs of matches, a thermal blanket . . . and a pair of chopsticks. _Exactly how am I supposed to use a pair of chopsticks?_ he wondered.

Yuuri ran scenarios through his head for each item he possessed. When he ran out of ideas, he started making guesses about what was in Yuri's two packs. Umbrella, fish and chips in plastic, kaleidoscope, grass clippers, and mini skis were all wrong guesses. 

Finally Yuri got impatient and shoved his packs at Yuuri for his inspection. Yuuri took quick inventory. Only his spyglass guess proved to be right. 

There were two more thermal blankets, a pair of gloves, a flintstone, another full water flask, two packs of crackers, five large fishhooks, and enough fishing wire to wrap around Yuuri's waist thirty times. 

That made three thermal blankets, three full flasks of water, and ten packs of crackers. The food wouldn't last long, even rationed. They were teenage boys, after all.

And now there was a gun somewhere in the arena, they'd have to be very, very careful foraging for more food. Yuuri dreaded testing which tributes might have a gun when they tried to escape the arena _en masse_. Especially if there turned out to be no door, and if nobody found any explosives to bust open a wall. He wasn't keen on waiting for the rebel forces to bail them out anymore. Nobody was moving fast enough.

Craving busywork, Yuuri rearranged the packs carefully. One thermal blanket and all the food and water in Yuri's extra pack. Tools and weapons divided between his own satchel and backpack. Lastly, Yuuri stuffed the two extra thermal blankets into Yuuri's main backpack. He explained to Yuri that if they were ambushed, they could pretend that backpack was rigged with explosives, dump it, and flee. Yuri smirked and nodded his approval.

“Good riddance,” he said. “I'll probably throw it in somebody's face. Stupid thing is weighted in the bottom, probably to slow us all down when we first rush the pillar.”

Yuuri checked the backpacks they had picked up beside the platforms at the start of the game. The other boy was right; the weight in his hands felt like a brick of gold sewn inside the base of backpack. Yuuri was embarrassed he hadn't noticed before.

After a couple beats of silence, Yuuri knew what strategy he wanted to adopt. He snapped his fingers to get Yuri's attention. When the blonde head swiveled to glare at him, he tapped the knife in his sleeve to jam communications, then looked down so no one could read his lips. 

“If we come up against someone with a gun, I will charge forward and you will run away,” Yuuri said. “We can't afford _both_ of us getting picked off.”

“Huh?” said Yuri. His voice was low but very clear with anger. Yuuri briefly glanced to the side, and saw Yuri rubbing under his nose so his hand masked his own lips. “No fucking way are you pulling a martyr march. I'm not dragging your dead bod to Victor after this.”

Yuuri looked back at the ground and sighed.

They sat in silence, each waiting for the other to add another facet to their new _modus operandi_. (At least, Yuuri thought that was what it was called.) Conserving energy, breathing slow to keep their heart rates from spiking again.

“I don't know what else to do,” said Yuuri, still staring at the grass at his feet. 

For once, Yuri was in no mood to mock his indecision.

Yuuri turned the comm-jamming device off, worried that the Gamemasters might suspect them if silence lasted too long. Though he hated the quiet suspense, he was glad for a respite from fighting. He tensed as they heard voices approaching. And then soft treading footsteps.

 _So much for a respite,_ Yuuri thought.

“Shit, Chris is here!” Yuri hissed, sitting up into a crouch and flexing his fingers over the handles of his axes. “Aren't they supposed to have headed northeast?”

“Probably changed direction, after the gunshot. I'll negotiate,” Yuuri whispered.

“No!” Yuri shook his head vehemently, blue-green eyes glaring, as if a sour look could keep Yuuri pinned to the grass. “It's too dangerous!”

“Danger is your middle name,” Yuuri whispered back. He shot to his feet before Yuri could move to intervene.

“Hello! Truce? Truce, please!” he yelled into cupped hands.

Phichit and Chris were rounding the crest of the little hill, swinging a lance between them like two preschoolers with a jump rope. They both stopped, poses tense. 

“Okay, but if you really want a truce, show of hands in the air,” said Phichit. He looked like he was two seconds away from releasing the lance and snatching up dagger and mace dangling at his hip.

“We heard the gunshot, too,” said Chris, shifting his weight to his left hip with feigned laziness. His grip on his end of the lance only tightened. “It's a different Game now, we're making new rules as we go.” 

“Then you drop 'em first!” Yuri yelled, also popping to his feet, taking care with his axes.

Yuuri wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Everybody put up your hands, on the count of three,” he said, trying to modulate his voice to sound conciliatory. He was hoping to calm himself as much as the others.

“One. Two. Three.”

Four voices chanted, four sets of palms raised tribute to the sky, weapons falling about their feet. Chris clapped, hands still high over his head.

“So,” said Chris, rolling his shoulders. “Any idea _who_ has the gun? Fuck if I know, and fuck if I can do anything about it even if I knew all the specs on it.”

Yuuri's brain promptly short-circuited. Hearing Chris swear was a _very_ different experience than hearing Yuri swear. Luckily, Phichit's ever-cheery voice snapped him back to the matter at hand.

“I can't imagine any of _us_ using one, except to blast through a door,” said Phichit. He tapped a merry rhythm against the hilt of his mace. “But that shot was way too close to be any of us busting out. It's got to be someone who infiltrated from the outside.”

“You're gonna have to jump-start your imagination, then,” said Yuri, pacing restlessly. “Because that thinking could get you killed. I'm not trusting any tributes not present. Can't afford to.”

Phichit sighed in acknowledgment. “We changed course for that very reason. I'm not sure how we're going to get through this,” he said, retrieving the lance from earlier and running his fingers along the tip. “So long as we're visible, we're sitting ducks.” 

They all sank to a crouch, silent as they each steeped in their own set of worries. Yuuri marveled that the only one past the age of majority here was Chris. Yet they all had to think like soldiers fighting for the chance to go home. 

Yuri tapped his knife to jam communications. “They can't hear us now. Is there a way for us to turn off the light?” he asked. “The arena is covered with panels that block or transmit the sunlight, right? What if someone on the outside turned them off? Or broke the circuit controlling their power input or whatever?”

Chris broke into a pleased smirk. “That would be difficult, but it's worth trying. How are we going to get this out to a stylist or liaison, though? How are _they_ going to keep anyone from fixing the issue? What if it's no use, and the shooter has infrared goggles or access to our tracker signals?”

Phichit squinted at his teammate. “You really aren't helping here.”

“But it's better to be ready for the wheels to fall off,” Yuri countered.

Phichit scratched the back of his neck and looked to Yuuri, the usual sparkle in his eyes suspended. “We need cheerier friends, hon.”

Yuuri smiled at him. “Maybe our friends on the other side of the screen can disrupt our tracker signals, too? Maybe even the video feed?” he suggested.

“I hope they have a lot of hands on deck, then,” said Chris, tapping out a nervous rhythm against his bent knees. It was like a slower version of whatever Phichit had been tapping earlier. “If it's any consolation . . . Phichit and I _can_ disrupt our tracker signals, but only ours.”

Yuuri looked at Yuri, had who in turn just gaped, silenced. It was weird how often Yuri lost his words lately.

Chris showed them a plastic device that Sector 5's stylist had embedded in the cuff of his suit. After a light tap, it glowed through the fabric, displaying a map of the arena. Phichit was represented by a blue dot, and Chris right beside him with purple. There were only six red dots scattered across the map. 

Yuuri shot Yuri a confused look. Neither of them were represented by a dot. Somehow, they were off the grid. That left four other tributes that no one, not even the Capitol, was watching. (He stubbornly refused to consider the four might already be dead.) The innumerable cameras were rigged to follow trackers signals only, he remembered from one of Anya's lectures. Yuuri hoped the Capitol didn't have an override or extra manual control cameras in place.

“Wait,” said Yuri. “Does this mean that they can't pick up our voices, either?”

“I'm certain of it,” said Chris. “I even tested it by saying every insult against Figarello's name I know, that would have gotten me killed if he heard it.”

Yuuri sighed. They had been jamming communications that weren't even working anymore.

“How did your stylist get away with modifying your suit?” Yuri asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes and scrunching up his nose. “The metal detectors won't ding for plastic, but still, you can tell your cuffs have been altered.”

Phichit smiled, but it was all teeth, none of his usual warmth. “Sector 4's stylist wanted approval to put plastic underwire for support in Mila's suit, but kept getting denied. So our stylist? They slept with the two people who were in the way, and got permission to alter all the suits. But there wasn't time. They only finished Mila's, Georgi's, Sara's, Chris', and my suit—er, suits, before we had to put them on and get in the pods.”

Yuuri nodded, thankful for the stylist's commitment, though uncomfortable with what that entailed. Everything was a commodity in the Capitol, after all. After reaching the age of majority and consent, Victor had confessed to quick, harried trysts. A woman in a her mid-twenties a few times, and also with another young man just come of age. Both to gain favors to help the families of tributes who had died. 

Victor assured Yuuri the experience had been consensual and boring enough to be forgettable. But Yuuri hoped Victor wouldn't have to do that anymore. He also hoped Phichit's and Chris' stylist wouldn't be singled out for blame.

“So how do we tell them to shut off the lights,” Yuri persisted, “without anyone else finding out?”

“Did you two and Victor come up with any signs?” Chris asked. Restless, he stood up and began stretching his legs, like an athlete warming up before a competition.

“A few, but nothing to do with lights,” grumbled Yuri.

Phichit sighed. “Same here with Celestino. I wished I'd learned Sarcon sign language.”

“But wouldn't the Capitol have an SSL interpreter on hand?” Yuuri argued. He started plucking and braiding shreds of grass to give his nervous fingers something to do. “Somebody would be bound to leak it to a Gamemaster,” 

Phichit nodded to concede the point. “I don't think it really matters what steps we take-- _at first_ ,” he said. “It's all up to chance. If we seek out one of the dots, or if we try to avoid them, it doesn't matter. The Gamemasters always end up herding us together if everyone's too quiet.”

“You sound like you think it's _worse_ to wait,” said Chris teasingly, now tapping his fingers against his thighs instead of his knees. “Haven't we the time to be cautious?”

“We need to get out of here _fast_ to catch Figarello off guard,” said Phichit, rising to his feet, like he had caught Chris' restless energy. Yuuri hated seeing him so agitated. “That gunshot? It means Figarello knows this Game is different. He played his own wild card. Who knows what changes are happening outside the arena.”

“Damn. You're right,” Yuri growled. “Especially since they know about Anya at least. Maybe every stylist and liaison who is ours.” His blue-green eyes met Yuuri's, and Yuuri knew he was worrying about Victor's well-being, physical as well as mental.

“What about Anya?” Chris asked. A wary note, so foreign from his usually flippant or sultry tone, crept into his voice.

The tributes from Sector 7 explained what they had seen as briefly as they could. Phichit crouched and reached out to pat Yuuri's hand. Yuuri was both surprised and grateful that he was comfortable with it. Phichit was one of his people, now, like Victor and Yuri and Anya.

Chris, hands clenched down in the grass, muttered what sounded like a plea for Anya's safety. Then he spoke up. “Well, since we all agree with Phichit, what shall we do first?”

Phichit and Yuri were silent. Yuuri was quite sure Yuri's only idea was to use Phichit's and Chris's tools to spy on the other tributes. Narrow down who was packing. But Yuri was stubbornly silent.

So Yuuri spoke up. “Le'ts go back to the pillar for more supplies,” he said. “If we're going to hunt down a hidden door, or storm the platforms to get into the pods, we need more equipment.”

Phichit looked at Yuuri, dark eyes affectionate but pensive. “If we come across someone with a gun, what's our fallback? Getting Chris in position to throw a lance?”

Christophe bit his lip. “I'm afraid that will only work if we come up behind them, and in that case, any weapon will do if they're close enough.”

“Or one of us sacrifices himself and draws fire,” said Yuuri slowly, rising to his feet and pacing to help jog his thoughts. “Then you'll have a clear shot, front or behind, so long as you're in range.”

“I hate that idea. Let's do it,” said Chris.

“Didn't I _just_ say I'm not dragging your dead bod back to Victor?” Yuri asked, looking like he wanted to punch Yuuri in the face, yet again.

Yuuri sighed with impatience. “I promise to survive if _you_ promise to survive.”

“You're on, ya damn softie.”

The two teams traded stock inventory. After grabbing a dagger and a mace, Phichit had focused on food, procuring enough water, jerky, rice cakes, and dried snap peas to last the four of them two, maybe even three weeks. Yuuri was sure if they weren't out within twelve hours, they'd all be dead. But it was good to know they had food if they _did_ break out.

Chris focused on tools and weapons. He showed off four extra daggers, a tarp, four metal stakes, five tranquilizer darts, ten fishhooks, twenty yards of fishing line, two mousetraps, five wooden skewers, a smoke bomb, four throwing stars-- _shuriken_ , Mari would call them--and twenty zip ties. When Yuri scowled at the lack of a dart gun, Chris shrugged.

“I didn't have time to look for one,” he said with a disarming smile. “I had to fight Mickey and get away. We changed course when we found out our trackers stopped working all on their own, not long after we cloaked ourselves.”

“Okay,” said Yuri, voice heavy with reluctance. “Damn, I wish we had more smoke bombs. Right now the only thing that could protect us is lack of visibility.”

Yuuri mentally added smoke bombs and a dart gun to his list of things to snatch.

Everyone gathered up their supplies, double checking straps and flaps were secure, then set out for the pillar again. Yuri dragged at the back, reluctance hanging on his every step. Phichit playfully jostled against Yuuri's shoulder. Chris took the lead, joking quietly like a fool, as if he wasn't probably planning to shield the younger tributes if bullets started flying.

Yuuri wasn't sure if Yuri noticed, but Phichit sure did, and tossed Chris a few bites of food. Chris shot him a funny look, as if he thought it dumb to feed the tribute most likely to die. But he accepted the jerky all the same.

Yuri huffed, and Yuuri jerked back to watch him. Yuri's face was pinched, annoyance obvious at the surface. But when he met Yuuri's gaze, he huffed again and shook his bangs over his eyes. Yuri was a loner; but there wasn't much alone time to be had here in the arena. Not when they needed to group together for sanity as much as survival.

Yuuri glanced back to Chris. Those perceptive green eyes read his look, much to Yuuri's surprise. Chris said, “Still no dots near the pillar. There's a good chance it will still be empty by the time we make it there.”

Yuuri's thoughts kept flickering to problems too far ahead in their plans. How were they going to push Figarello and the Gamemasters into exile once they got out? Yakov and Celestino and Minako hadn't had the time or safety to communicate their plans in detail. But they summed up two routes: 

One, feigning a large, organized rebel arson attack on the halls and tunnels wrapping around the arena. 

Two, evacuating, then staging explosions in Figarello's private residence, several miles west from the arena. 

Yuuri wasn't sure either was achievable now.

Had the rebels seized that sky galley? How would they get tributes away from the arena? And how were he and Yuri going to meet up with Victor again? They hadn't learned the location of the lounge for the stylists and liaisons. Would they have to leave Victor behind if they made it out?

Yuuri was not happy with the way his mind was determined to cast every possibility in the darkest shadow.

“Shit!” Chris whispered. Yuuri jolted back to the here and now. Chris looked back at the rest of them. “There's a red dot heading toward the pillar. Do you want to wait?”

Yuuri, Phichit, and Yuri all voted to keep plodding forward. They couldn't risk someone else taking all the supplies. Within a couple minutes, they arrived at their destination.

Yuuri felt himself tensing all over at the sight of sandy brown hair by the cubby holes of the pillar.

“Isn't that Guang-Hong?” Phichit whispered.

“Pretty sure it is,” said Yuri, running a hand through his blond hair. “Don't underestimate him. Any one of us knows how to shoot a gun.”

“I don't!” hissed Yuuri, Chris, and Phichit in unison.

Yuri rolled his eyes heavenward, then stomped forward past all of them. Once he was within range for Guang-Hong to hear him, he called, “Oi! Ya want a truce?”

Guang-Hong's head was buried in a satchel. He dropped the satchel and jerked to his feet, snatching up his bow resting against the pillar and reaching for an arrow at his back. His eyes widened with terror at seeing four tributes.

He nocked the arrow in place, drawing back the bow. “Not unless, unless . . .” Yuuri saw Guang-Hong bite his lip with savage determination, trying to hold back tears. Probably hoping to gather splintered thoughts as well. He looked the way Yuuri had felt since sprinting off the round platform. “Unless you all swear to me, on your mothers' bones, that none of you shot Seung-Gil!” he yelled. 

Yuuri's chest seized up, as if all the oxygen in the arena suddenly vanished like lightning fleeing thunder. Trying to give himself something to focus on, he looked to his fellows.

“Seung-Gil? _Mon dieu_ ,” Chris muttered, green eyes narrowing.

Yuri just gaped like a fish. Phichit burst into tears. “How is he?” Phichit asked, though his trembling voice hinted he didn't really want an answer.

Guang-Hong let the bow slide back to its original position and lowered the arrow in one hand. His knuckles clenched white as daisy petals around the bow. “Not good. He's dead. In a ditch.” He walked toward them like a lost child picking a group of adults to follow. “They shot him in the head. _Three times_.”

Yuuri slid to his knees before he knew his body was moving. He blinked down at the blades of grass. His mind's eye cast them black and red with drying blood, and he couldn't convince himself it wasn't real.

“Who?” he heard Chris ask, voice low and choked and dangerous.

Guang-Hong didn't answer. The only sound coming from him were muffled sobs. Phichit must be hugging him, because that's what Phichit would do. Chris had to repeat the question in a softer tone. Guang-Hong hiccuped and answered in a faraway voice, like only half his consciousness was present.

“I didn't see. I have no idea who did it.”

Yuuri felt himself drifting away as well, like his mind wanted to navigate a pretend wasteland instead of dealing with this news here and now. He forced himself to take a strangled breath. His fingers rose to the nape of his neck, pressing along the hairline, hoping it would work the same way it did whenever Victor needed to calm down.

“Is the ditch close by?” Yuri asked. He sounded like he was talking through clenched teeth. But Yuuri wouldn't look up from the grass.

“About eight or ten minutes' run,” said Guang-Hong, his voice a bit hard to understand. He was probably crying on Phichit's shoulder.

“Yuuri.” A big hand—probably Chris' hand, since his voice was speaking his name—rattled his shoulder gently. “Hey, buddy. We need to look for vests and food and explosives. Also a dart gun. Can you help Yuri do that, while Phichit and I get Guang-Hong's head back in the Game?”

Yuuri wanted to scream that nobody should have to get their head back in the Game this quickly. Much less a pack of kids. Instead he swallowed bile, grunted, and shuffled to his feet. 

They only spared five hasty minutes picking through satchels and backpacks. They found a short-range dart gun, more daggers and fishing line and crackers, but no smoke bombs or vests. Afraid to linger, they set out to follow Guang-Hong back to his and Seung-Gil's camp.

Yuuri saw Guang-Hong clinging to Phichit absently; there were wastelands in the young boy's eyes, and he tried to avoid looking at all of them directly. Yuuri especially. 

Victor had never told Yuuri what to do when faced with the body of a friend and ally. Victor had only focused on how to avoid _becoming_ the body, how to wound someone and flee so you didn't have to turn _them_ into a body.

He guessed Victor, for all his experience, didn't know, either.

* * *

Victor stared at the screen before him as he saw Guang Hong crying over, then fleeing Seung-Gil's body in the grass.

Victor felt his mind screech to a halt, then overflow with fragmented thoughts. _No, no, no. Seung-Gil's too analytical. Too pragmatic. A fluke. Seung-Gil, dead by fluke? No. Never._

Victor knew the entire purpose of the Game was to enthrall millions of viewers in suspense. All as a display of Sarcon's might. Nobody was entertained by a contest where no one could compete. If Sarcon, if Figarello wanted that, the tributes would have been ritualistically slain on the podium instead.

So why was there a gun involved for the first time in Game history? Nobody had favorable odds against that.

He racked his brain for answers. Who was the traitor? A tribute betraying tributes, or a Gamemaster betraying rules? Both were unthinkable—but there Seung-Gil lay anyway.

Victor squinted. In the corner of one screen, he could see someone in a tribute uniform with a tarp over their head. They were running away from the hill behind the hollow where Seung-Gil last stood.

Somebody grabbed Victor by the scruff of the neck. On autopilot, Victor's fingers dove for the nearest throat before he could stop himself. He blinked, and saw Minako's hand blocking his own hand from Yakov's windpipe. She still had combat skills from her stint in the arena years and years ago. Yakov was yelling his name over and over.

“Victor! Victor! Focus, Victor!” Yakov didn't stop yelling, didn't release Victor, until Victor focused on his brows and eyes. Minako patted Victor's hand and guided it back to his side. Yuuko then took it in her own hand and squeezed. 

Victor wondered if Yuuri had told them about his dissociative lapses. If Yuuri explained the best way to bring him out of it was physical touch on his face, neck, and hands. If so, Yakov had forgotten the most important detail: be gentle.

Victor was not happy. Almost half of the tributes were out of sight, and his imagination was fraught with horrid visions. He noted down each still-visible tribute and their behavior to distract himself. 

Takeshi was done re-arranging the supplies all around the pillar. He'd fled the centerpoint and easiest place for a gunman to find, now lying low to the east and nursing his wounds. There was no sign of Minami. He should have doubled back to regroup with Takeshi, what was keeping him?

Sara and Mickey were the furthest tributes from the center, already breaking through the barrier separating grass from snow in the arena. They were hollowing out a hiding place behind the biggest snowbank they could find, digging frantically. 

JJ and Leo were trying to outdo each other with corny jokes, but they couldn't even shield their fear from themselves. They were covering ground at fast pace, closer to west than north, and were likely to pass the barrier soon, too.

How was Victor supposed to do anything, while tied down and hidden away like this? All he could do was accessorize a couch. His bad leg was starting to ache at the strain in his muscles, due to his tense posture.

This helplessness was bad. Almost as bad as the roiling in his gut at seeing the families of the tributes he killed. With this new development, it looked like the tributes wouldn't be able to keep their pact to make it out without killing each other.

Yuuri. Was Yuuri okay? Was he getting along with Yuri? He knew Yuuri Katsuki had been planning for this Game for a while now. But only Yuri Plisetsky had received months and months of detailed, brutally honest accounts from a five-time Game champion. Victor had told Yuri Plisetsky things he had never confided in another living soul. Things he couldn't bring himself to talk about, even to someone he considered his kid brother, until he had a generous amount of vodka sloshing in his belly. 

How could he? How bloody could he? He regretting involving Yuri at all now.

Yuri had wanted to — it had been his suggestion to volunteer for the second name drawn, since they knew one of the names would be Victor's. It had surprised Yuri to have his own name drawn.

The next moment, Victor wished he were down there with them. Now that an armed shooter had changed the entire strategy of the Game itself, he needed to be with them. There was no guarantee he could protect them — but at least they would have a few moments more together, as a team. As a family.

He believed he could sense if anything happened to Yuuri and Yuri. Or at least, he wanted to believe. To know that, even if no camera or human eye bore witness, he would be able to feel a rift in his world opening up.

He squeezed Yuuko's hand back, grateful they could ground each other. Somewhat. The only person who could help Victor felt really, truly grounded was not with him.

* * *

“Someone's . . . going to have to examine the bullet wounds,” said Yuri. His voice was oddly quiet, like they were entering in an ancient sanctum at the favor of unknown gods. They all stood a few paces from the hollow, but they were just far away enough that they couldn't spot the body past the lip of earth. They were trying to summon the mental and emotional fortitude to cope with a closure no one wanted.

Guang-Hong stared at him, not following the other boy's meaning.

Yuri cleared his throat awkwardly, scratching along his neck as if plagued by a mosquito. “To figure out what direction the bullets came from.”

Phichit shuddered. Taking on another responsibility as the oldest, Chris gulped and nodded. His eyes roaming all around them, as if he feared they might have returned to the scene too swiftly. 

He strode forward, motioning for Yuuri to hand him a thermal blanket. Yuuri complied. He and Phichit and Yuri and Guang-Hong waited a few heartbeats. Yuuri remembered with a jolt that since Guang-Hong still showed up as red dot on Phichit's and Chris' watches, the cameras and microphones were recording everything and everyone around Guang-Hong. They weren't off the radar anymore. They would have to be careful.

Chris quietly called them down to join him. Yuuri struggled not to trip as he hiked down the slope to the hollow's base. Something flashed in the corner of his vision, and he made a short detour to scoop up a pocket mirror.

Chris sat cross-legged by a form shrouded in the blanket, one corner lifted up just enough for him to look at Seung-Gil's features. The others sat off to the side, sidestepping a small dark boulder.

Chris was silent a moment. “I take it, Guang-Hong, that you didn't turn him or move him?”

“No,” Guang-Hong hiccuped.

Chris nodded and examined the wounds carefully. “I'm no gun expert, but this was likely from a pistol. It's too . . . clean. Aren't handguns less damaging?”

“I don't know,” said Yuuri and Phichit together. Phichit reached for Yuuri's hand and squeezed, nails curling to bite into skin. Yuuri was grateful for the grounding sting.

“Yes,” said Yuri. He absently tugged upon the tips of his sweat-matted hair. “They leave a simpler, cleaner path through flesh. Less external and internal damage. Victor told me. Rifles are much more destructive and messy. And yeah, if the hole's . . . clean, then it's close range for sure.”

“He didn't say anything about that to me,” said Yuuri. He searched Yuri's profile for a hint of reasoning.

Yuri wasn't about hints that day. “He didn't think you'd join us. Remember?” he prompted, refusing to tear his eyes away from distant grass. “Victor didn't tell me much, just enough to figure out if he'd been shot long range or close range, pistol or rifle. And how to shoot a gun if I ever got my hands on one.”

“What?” Yuuri's voice was sharper than intended, too surprised to hide the anger and repulsion. He regretted speaking when he looked around and noticed everyone coiling and tensing to stare around them.

“Victor thought,” said Yuri, voice the perfect specimen of calm but lifeless, “that if he made a mistake, or if Figarello decided it was time to make him a martyr, he'd get shot. He wanted me to know.”

Chris clucked his tongue softly, then gently smoothed the corner flat to cover their friend again. “I'm going to see if there's anything left behind by the shooter,” he said, stretching and then pushing himself up to his feet.

Yuuri nodded vacantly. Yuri kept staring off into the distance and tugging on his hair; Phichit's nails didn't stop digging into Yuuri's hand.

Steps silent and cautious, Chris followed an invisible line along the grass till he came to a small hill beyond the hollow. There was an indent in the grass, probably from someone crouched in waiting. Nothing else. Chris sighed. He did a circuit twice round the hollow's perimeter. Yuuri realized with a start that he was making sure they were truly alone. Chris stopped to pick up three more pocket mirrors and flash them in Yuuri's direction. Given his personality, normally they would be accompanied with a joke about flashing; but Chris wasn't in the joking mood, and neither was Yuuri.

“Is there a traditional benediction or prayer Koreans say to their departed?” Phichit asked, after Chris returned and perched himself on top of the small boulder. He let out a long breath after speaking, slowly letting go of Yuuri's hand.

None of them knew.

“I think . . . I think he knew it was coming and protected me,” said Guang-Hong. His voice was dull and measured, like he was afraid of breaking down if he didn't keep a lid on his emotions. 

“He sounds like a caring friend,” said Phichit, leaning against Yuuri's shoulder for comfort. Yuuri allowed it, even rubbed circles along Phichit's shoulder blades. The way he would do with Victor from time to time.

“He was an grumpy bastard,” said Guang-Hong, grinding his palms into his eyes. “I miss him already. He was about to tell me something. I think? He froze up. Stared past me for a second. Ignoring me when I asked what was wrong. Next thing I knew, he jumped forward. Shoved me. And I fell. Almost hit that damn rock.” He kicked his foot in the boulder's direction.

“He probably saw something in one of these,” said Chris, placing his pocket mirrors down next to the one that Yuuri had grabbed.

Yuri shot Guang-Hong a piercing look. “Did he say anything unusual just before that, too?”

“No, why?” Guang-Hong asked. He put his hands down, eyes wide and dewy with tears he was willing to go away for good. “He didn't say anything. I was talking about forgetting to mark my last task complete. Back at home in Sector 3, I mean. Before we were carted off for the reaping.”

“Well, that doesn't help us any. . . wait a second,” said Chris, staring down at the rock beneath him. “Why does the rock have something on it, anyway?”

They crowded around to stare. Drilled into a corner of the boulder was the symbol of a crow with one wing.

“Is that some symbol we should know?” Chris asked, looking from tribute to tribute.

Guang-Hong shook his head, but began rummaging through his pack. He took out a notebook and pencil and started sketching the symbol. Yuuri wasn't fooled, but he hoped the Gamemasters were. He tapped his knife, ducked his head, and told Guang-Hong he didn't have to write down his answer and pass it around. He could just tell them. After Yuri chimed to explain how their comm-jamming knives worked, Guang-Hong smiled.

Putting up his forearm to obscure his lips, Guang-Hong said, “Only people from my Sector know this symbol.” He blew out a weary breath. “I think I know why they shot him now. In Sector 3, crows are marked on doors. Crow with only one wing for confirmed traitors to shoot, crow with two wings for suspected rebels to herd away with a staff. They knew Seung-Gil sympathized with the uprising.”

“Anybody else,” said Yuri, also keeping his head down to hide his lips, “thinking it makes no sense to put that on a random rock?”

“Figarello is from their Sector,” said Chris. “And I saw this on all the doorposts of the rooms they assigned us in the arena. Didn't know what it meant until now. It makes perfect sense. He thinks we're all traitors.”

“Oh God,” said Guang-Hong. “That's why Seung-Gil nearly stumbled when we went through the door. He shoved me ahead of him so I couldn't see the doorpost.”

“But _why_ would Figarello wanna tip you guys off about this?” said Yuri, almost forgetting to keep his head down. 

“I don't think it was a tip,” said Chris. “I think it was frosting on cake. The man loves pomp and symbolism, diving into the details and stuff. He didn't do it for us — he did it for him. I'm a diva, trust me on this; takes one to know one.”

Yuri shook his head, obviously not buying that line of thought.

But Yuuri did. He thought back to how Figarello referenced Rip Van Winkle to make Yuuri feel ignorant. Yuuri wondered just how much free time Figarello must have, if he was leaving little hidden messages to himself at every turn, gleefully wondering how many references would go over all the heads he wanted to lop off.

Then he remembered his knife was still on silent, and he signaled the others before tapping it again so the Gamemasters could hear them. 

Yuuri just wanted to topple over to the side, let his head make itself a cradle in the grass. What was the point of trying to survive when Figarello had a personal vendetta against them? Maybe Anya wasn't the only stylist he targeted. Maybe he'd gone after Victor and the other liaisons, too.

“How much time has passed since the Game began?” Phichit asked. “One hour? Two hours?”

After brief discussion, they arrived at a consensus of sixty to ninety minutes.

“What do we do now? I don't think we should stay here,” said Chris, voice softening as he glanced back at the blanket over Seung-Gil's form.

“I say we go to the closest edge and start looking for the goddamn door,” said Yuri.

Neither Chris or Yuuri particularly liked that idea . . . but they had no alternatives ready to suggest. Yuuri felt he had the whispers of an idea, a strategy germinating just out of his reach. He hoped his inspiration would show itself soon. Yuuri tapped his knife again to restore audio once more.

Chris clapped quietly, rose to his feet,and after checking with Guang-Hong, scooped him up in a piggyback hold, and set out dead north . . . or at least, what appeared to be north. Based on Phichit's and Chris' adapted watches, anyway.

The others made a show of reluctantly following, making it appear that they were following Chris and his whims. Yuuri tried to stay alert, but his senses dragged along with his weary feet. His vision blurred, only keeping focus on the forms of his nearest companions. He felt like his consciousness would drift down and away, like a bucket in a well, at any second. Like his nerves would lock his body in eternal stasis. 

All Yuuri wanted to do was sit, dance his fingers along every blade of grass, try to catch the faint scents in the still air around him. Smile at the filtered light pouring from the imitation sky-ceiling and pretend it was unadulterated sunlight.

A jolt seemed to awaken him. Yuri was swearing at him for almost tripping over his own feet.

* * *

Victor nearly fainted with relief when he watched Guang-Hong lower his bow and take comfort from Phichit and Chris and Yuuri and Yuri. Finally, finally, he could see his two boys. He was also heartened that Phichit and Chris were safe, for now. He watched carefully for any new injuries. Physically, Yuuri and Yuri were fine. But what he could see of their faces were hollow. 

Phichit looked convincingly cheery, though admittedly Victor didn't know him well. He could instantly tell that Chris was hiding a weight in his chest, though. 

He wasn't sure what was up with cameras, but he hoped Figarello had the Gamemasters motivated to fix the tracking issue somehow. If he lost sight of Yuuri or Yuri again, he was sure he'd go mad.

Victor wished there was a way to take on their pain himself. He watched the quintet return to cover Seung-Gil's body and scout the area. He rubbed Yuuko's back as she cried softly. Victor knew Yuuko was terrified of the same thing happening to Takeshi. Makkachin went back and forth between nuzzling Yuuko's knees and kneading Victor's shoes with her paws.

Yet again, he wished he could be there, bullets be damned. Victor wanted to help Yuuri drag himself away from the abyss of sadness and lethargy he could see wrapping itself around him. He wanted to praise Yuri for remembering what he told him about bullet wounds, but also smack him upside the head for letting Yuuri know. He wanted to grip Chris's shoulder and tell him just how incredibly strong he was. 

Chris was taking care of the other tributes, the same way he had supported Victor right after he watched Yuuri accidentally confess his crush. Chris was tougher than anyone believed.

* * *

Yuuri trembled with every step. Once every two or three minutes, he swore he saw a dark shape dip into his peripheral vision. But every time he swerved his head, there was nothing. Just grass.

He began to doubt his vision. After adjusting, then cleaning his glasses, he massaged his eyes behind his lids with his palms. But he followed every imagined shape with his eyes anyway.

And then one black speck tearing the air high above them turned out to be real. Yuri was gaping at it, too.

“Let me guess,” said Yuri. “That's a fucking crow. Isn't it?”

They waited, Chris and Yuuri paying more attention to their surroundings than to the distracting bird. The crow swooped low enough to caw at them and confirm their suspicions.

“This Figarello guy is fucking extra,” Yuri spat. “Okay, Chris, you were right.”

In any other situation, Chris would have probably preened at such an admission.

Yuuri picked up a stray feather resting a foot or so beyond his toes. He hadn't seen it hit the grass.

* * *

Victor had to clench his jaw and his fists with Hurclean effort to keep from screaming, as the television screens mockingly showed him almost everything but where Yuuri and Yuri were. He saw them pay they respects to Seung-Gil, then start north, before bleeding past the edges of the camera's focus.

Yakov and Minako and several other liaisons were screaming. Something about _somebody_ to do their damn job and zoom out on the camera. Several messages, eletronic and word-of-mouth, were sent to the Gamemasters.

It was several minutes before he'd imbibed enough vodka to make him feel numb enough to shift his attention. He saw JJ break away from Leo as soon as they came to the barrier between snow and grass. Why were they splitting up? Hadn't they heard the gunshot?

Maybe some of them lacked blankets and didn't want to risk the cold. Maybe they were all terrified of leaving tracks in the snow. Maybe they thought the rest of the tributes were crossing the barrier and hoped to be the only ones lingering behind.

Then he noticed JJ and Leo parted at the crest of a hill. He followed the direction they were gesturing in, comparing camera angles shown on multiple screens and . . . 

_Oh shit_ , he thought. 

They'd spotted Minami. Alone.

JJ was going to Minami. Victor could only hope it was to protect him. But why leave Leo alone on the hill? Even with such a vantage point and with walkie-talkies lifted from the pillar, Leo wasn't immune to bullets. How did walkie-talkies with limited battery life make them feel better about splitting up?

Victor tapped a rhythm against his thigh, keeping most of his focus on JJ and Minami. Minami was moving southwest, which was even more odd than JJ's behavior. If Minami was worried that Takeshi hadn't joined him yet, he should be going dead south to regroup. If neither Minami nor JJ veered off, they'd spot each other soon.

He watched the other visible tributes for any clues about who had fired at Seung-Gil. But nobody was dropping hints about who they trusted least. Mickey and Sara were done digging into a snowbank, silently repositioning the snow into a wall and using extra fistfuls to conceal their tracks. Takeshi was still waiting and saving his strength. He looked like he wanted to mumble a string of curses and take a nap.

Victor reviewed what he knew of the tributes no longer on screen or microphone. It wasn't much. Mila and Georgi were still nowhere on the map. As time passed, Victor became more and more suspicious that something terrible had happened to them. Neither of them operated with coyness or stealth.

“No news from the Gamemasters about what's wrong with the trackers?” he asked Yuuko when she returned to him. He honestly hadn't noticed when she left.

“No. We haven't gotten responses from anyone, not even Figarello. You know how much he likes to talk. This is weird. I'm worried, Victor,” said Yuuko, voice quiet and clipped. She gripped a plate of macaroons like she wanted to break it to relieve her stress. Victor shook his head when she offered him one mechanically. “If Figarello ordered it, they could throw cameras on a sky galley. Get them here and install them in the glass ceiling of the arena. Close all the blind spots, and just track each tribute manually. But neither Figarello nor Cao Bin has lifted a finger to do anything. Maybe this whole debacle is convenient for them.”

Victor had learned from his trips to the Capitol that convenience often went hand-in-hand with _somebody else_ making sacrifices. He dragged a hand through his hair. Speaking of sacrifices . . .

“Yuuko. Do you have any contacts able to bring us explosives? Any tools I can use to bust the arena wall, or pry open the hatch on the platforms?”

Yuuko shook her head, downing another macaroon. “Nobody who could get past security. Lilia has tried snooping for stashes of anything dangerous within a five-minute walk down the halls, but she hasn't found anything beyond the extra enforcer suits. I don't have anything, either. We'll just have to wait for the sky galley to arrive. Then figure out if we should punch a hole in the ceiling or the wall with explosives.”

Victor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay.”

Yakove inclined his head, beckoning for Minako to join him. Minako walked on unsteady legs to his side. She was in the no-man's-land between sober and hammered, lucid enough to work, sloshed enough to be numb. But dangerously close to speaking before thinking, too. Victor would scold, except he was a flashback away from considering drinking enough vodka to join her.

As soon as Minako left Yakov to hunt down another glass of wine, Yuuko excused herself once more. Victor thought she might be smelling a new development. He kept his eyes glued to the screens. The short glimpses of Yuuri and Yuri and Phichit and Chris, examining the site of their friend's death, were not enough for him. He wanted more assurance they were safe. He wanted to comfort all of them, somehow.

Who knew what had happened to them — or who _they_ had happened to? — by now. He felt a tug on his shoulder, and looked up to see Yuuko beaming down at him with a pleased expression. “Victor!” she hissed conspiratorially. “Lilia found a copy of the blueprints for the arena. A physical copy! She left it with Anya. Want to pay Anya a visit again? Don't worry; it'll be quick. You'll be back to watching for the Yuris to show up within five minutes.”

Something in Victor twinged, like a warning. It was quite likely that nobody had thought to protect an old-fashioned blueprint. It was also quite likely that somebody had _left it out as a lure_.

But it was a damn good lure, so his rose to his feet, stepping in sync with Yuuko out of the room.

* * *

“Hello there!”

Yuuri jerked up to his feet, five minute break forgotten, as if straightened by strings. Was that JJ's booming voice?

“What the ever-loving _fuck_ is up with that guy?” Yuri groused. His tears were dry now, and he was back to keeping a couple feet and his ax between him and Yuuri, habit broken only to yell in Yuuri's face occasionally.

Well, if Yuri was annoyed, it definitely was JJ.

Phichit, Chris, Guang-Hong, Yuuri, and Yuri drifted closer together, so any one of them could deflect a projectile for his neighbor.

“Don't worry, tigerling, I will put a lance through his guts if he's trouble,” said Chris amiably, shifting weight from foot to foot like a boxer hyping himself up for a match.

Guang-Hong flashed a shaky smile.

Yuri grumbled under his breath, too annoyed with JJ to even notice his latest nickname. What a pity.

JJ finally appeared where Yuuri could see, practically leaping out from behind a small grassy hill. “Please tell me none of you have a gun!” JJ sing-songed at them, rubbing his hands together like he was in a mind to build a fire. “Not really in the mood for a royal pain today.”

“You better not have a gun down your drawers, either!” Yuri yelled back.

“Not at all,” said JJ, patting the longsword at his hip and drawing it from its sheath.

Chris muttered about amateurs ignoring golden chances for innuendo.

“You're not serious!” Yuri spread his arms. “It's one vs. four, dumbass. We have you.”

“No. I'll kick your asses while smiling!” JJ answered.

“Oh, fuck EVERYTHING!”

Over Yuri's yelling, Chris smirked and nodded at Phichit and Yuuri, then slid his eyes to Yuri and jutted his chin in JJ's direction. Yuri guessed his meaning and nodded back. With surprising accuracy, Chris and Yuri matched paces to charge at different angles. JJ ducked Yuri's axes and blocked the lance Chris aimed at his neck. But not Chris's dagger. The tip slashed JJ's thigh across the top.

JJ howled and plummeted forward, wresting the knife away from Chris as the two of them toppled over. The sword barely missed nicking both of them. Yuri batted the sword away with loud, ringing blows from his axes.

Before JJ could extricated himself from Chris, Phichit had his dagger at JJ's jugular, and Yuuri prodded JJ's back with his mace. 

JJ blew out a long, frustrated breath through his nose. “Don't kill me here! Not this way!” he demanded, an odd tone for someone now out-armed as well as outnumbered. “If I'm to die, let me die standing, eyes to the sky! This is my only request. Have you honor to grant it?”

Yuri laughed. “You're not dead yet, champ of chumps. You're our prisoner and shield, for now.”

Chris wriggled his legs out from under JJ's weight, while JJ sat up and chafed under Yuri's ax (he replaced Phichit's dagger) and Yuuri's mace. Phichit fetched zip ties and used two to secure JJ's hands behind his back. Yuuri didn't hear what Phichit whispered with his face close to the back of JJ's neck. Whatever it was, JJ seemed to acquiesce loudly.

When Phichit huddled in front of JJ, making a show of searching him for hidden weapons, JJ used the cover to wink at Yuuri. 

Even so, Yuuri did not, would not trust JJ. Not like Chris or Phichit. JJ didn't mean any overt harm, he knew this much; hell, JJ might even take a bullet or sword wound for the younger tributes. But Yuuri was most worried about JJ's loud mouth. JJ's liaison had only told him the bare minimum to avoid mishap. Or so Victor head learned and passed on, just before the end of their train ride to the Capitol.

Chris bade JJ rise and walk in front of him. JJ acquiesced, and the group of five continued their journey to the outskirts of the arena.

* * *

Victor did not know _how_ Minami had managed to skirt past JJ entirely. Not even the other stylists or liaisons, watching the whole thing, could have told him. Minako, acting so unbearably drunk now that Victor couldn't even tell if she was faking it, scolded him for running away to flirt with Yuuko. Victor played along, grounding himself in the cool, metallic feet of his cufflinks beneath his fingertips. He soon flirted himself back into her good graces. 

Even though the vodka he drank earlier, and the wine even earlier, was wearing off, his mind still buzzed with the possibilities now open to them. The new knowledge of the ins and outs of the arena proved worth the risk.

Yuuko, he noticed, was quietly distributing what she thought the most trustworthy liasions and stylists needed to know. Like a robin doing the work of a raven. At first, Victor had balked at picking and choosing who got to know what, but Yuuko's strategy won him over. If any of them snitched to Figarello, they would know who it was.

Victor was still idealistic enough to hope that everyone was as committed to the cause as he was. But he'd only believe it after his boys were safe. He'd even welcome, or at least tolerate, unrequited heartache if it meant they people he cared about suffered less.

* * *

Yuuri expected JJ to ask what they were after, but he never did. JJ marched tall and proud, as if he were a general leading his battalions. All the while, he babbled about his girlfriend Isabella, who was no doubt at home with her and JJ's large families, cheering him on.

Victor had always hated it when the tributes he outlasted had large families waiting at home.

Isabella sounded like she would get along with Anya famously, but Yuuri wished JJ would shut up. The only women in his life at home were _kaa-san_ and Mari, and he didn't want to think how worried they must be right now.

A couple times, Yuri looked like he would smack JJ to still his lips—but JJ hadn't even noticed Phichit or Chris checking their watches. So Yuri just kicked tufts of turf.

They paused when they reached the barrier where grass ended and snow began. A blue forcefield cast the snow in an eerie light beyond. Yuuri hoped it wasn't as strong as the red ones shielding the Gamemasters in the training room, or guarding the fences back at home in Sector 7.

Chris and Phichit whistled a few bars of some tune as a countdown, then shoved their hands through the field in tandem. No resistance, no shock of electricity, no burning or scarring. Yuri griped about them being too stupid to take five seconds to grab a stick instead.

As they all walked forward, Yuuri felt like he was passing through a thin film of gel. The air instantly snapped him cold and wakeful and wary. Yuuri felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising, and it wasn't the cold at fault. Yuri and Phichit immediately drew their weapons, and Yuuri followed suit. Since Phichit was the one closest to JJ, he cut the zip-tie over JJ's wrists with his dagger with a loud _snap_. Rushing, he handed JJ his heavy sword, sheath and all.

Guang-Hong stood frozen in terror, like a deer hoping he would disappear from sight if he halted all motion. JJ clapped him on the shoulder and playfully jabbed him in the ribs. Guang-Hong shook himself and readied his bow and nocked an arrow.

The youngest boy started to swerve away to distance himself, but JJ drew his sword and shook it in warning. JJ knew the closer they packed together, the harder it would be to pick them off singly. They could split when they knew the threat's location.

Chris didn't reach for his lance. Yuuri thought he might as well slap a red circle across his chest.

“Pssst, dumbass, knock it off!” Yuri hissed at Chris. The oldest boy winked, but otherwise ignored him.

No enemies rose from the tall piles of white down. The troop of boys stood like sentinels, huffing out breaths that fogged white, then disappeared like ghosts. Shifting weight from one tense foot to the other. And then Yuuri realized their threat was in the mood for sport.

Yuuri knew he shouldn't snap. Victor would want him to keep his head, figuratively and literally. He wouldn't want Yuuri to prove he was right to volunteer in Victor's place.

But Victor wasn't there with him.

Yuuri swung both mace and ax as ominously as he could, like he was winding up for destruction. He picked the direction he assumed was dead north and stalked forward.

JJ shook his sword again, but Yuuri pressed on, snow crunching beneath his shoes. He wondered how the Gamemasters had the stuff made.

“Yuuri, what the hell? Get back here!” said Yuri, voice low and testy.

“Sod off,” Yuuri shot back, not even caring if his loud tone carried. _Come on, come on. Get on with it. I'm a target you can't resist,_ Yuuri thought. _I'm here to mess up all your delicate little schemes._

A _CRACK_ , far too close, thundered in his ears. Something whistled past his shoulder, and he jerked to the left.

“YUURI!”

“GET DOWN!” he yelled, drowning out Yuri's voice.

He threw himself belly-first onto the snow, squinting in the direction of the ringing shot. If he'd been moving due north, then the shot came from the northeast. Probably closer to east than north. No one had cried out in pain, so he hoped the bullet had missed, as he heard the others also collapse to make themselves small. _Thump, thud, thud, thump._

So far, his dumb gamble had paid off.

_Twang!_

An arrow sailed over his head at the exact moment he caught a glimpse of black from behind a snowbank. The aim was good; the shaft plummeted forward and embedded itself in the black void. An anguished scream rattled the air, stealing Yuuri's rasping breath. The small black target disappeared.

Well, everyone but Guang-Hong had collapsed.

Yuuri risked a quick glance behind him; Guang-Hong carefully sank to his knees, reaching behind him for another arrow. Yuri, chin propped in the snow, met his worried gaze and shuffled sideways with his elbows, hoping to yank Guang-Hong to the safe blanket of snowflakes.

“FOR SEUNG-GIL!”

Another _twang_ , but this time another resounding _CRACK_ followed on its heels.

A bullet sped over his head, but Yuuri didn't look back. He couldn't yet. Raising himself up on one elbow, he hurled his ax with all his strength at the sliver of black fabric and something black and shiny returning to view. _CRACK!_ This bullet whistled closer, but still missed him.

Cries of grief followed the shot. Yuuri's breath stuttered. He tore his eyes from the ax's arc through the air, staring back. A third _CRACK_ , and another bullet passed him by. Guang-Hong careened forward, limbs limp and jaw slack and head pierced thrice to match his teammate.

Yuuri couldn't even remember what curses left his lips. He looked back at his ax. It lay embedded just a foot or so short of its target.

Yuri was crying loudly behind him, but Yuuri forced himself to concentrate. He had to get up, run at an angle, and go round the snowbank to surprise their assailant. And he needed to do it before a bullet found anyone else.

He jumped to his feet and pumped his legs. A yell egged him on, and he spotted a lance rocketing forward in the corner of his eye.

_Get the bastard, Chris._

“I will win! I will triumph! For my sweet Anya!”

Yuuri's blood ran cold at the manic sound to Georgi Popovich's voice.

* * *

Yuuko and some of the stylists were leading a sobbing Minako to a quieter corner of the lounge. Victor felt like he was glued by despair to the couch beneath him.

All eyes in the lounge turned to Yakov for his reaction. Yakov was quickly turning red.

“That can't be Georgi!” he shouted. “The boy's never seen a gun in person. He couldn't hit a whale with a rifle full of buckshot! Didn't you hear his drivel about how the only chivalrous weapons are bow and sword?”

Victor could recall the very speech mentioned — and also how he himself gave Yuri only two lessons, and Yuri was already a half-decent shot with a pistol. Georgi could have also caught on fast.

Lilia shot Yakov a side-eye few could endure. She couldn't mention that, as far as Figarello and Cao Bin and the enforcers were concerned, Anya was dead. Nobody in the lounge was supposed to know; everyone pretended to assume she was busy or indisposed.

Victor admired her presence of mind as she said, “Didn't Anya spurn him — multiple times — before he went into the arena? Do you think rejection sits well with a young man like him?”

Yakov turned a deep shade of purple. 

* * *

Yuuri felt like half his life had passed before he rounded the opposite side of the bank. He had three or four dozen half-baked plans running through his brain, based on what awaited him.

He found only a wayward arrow and a bloodstain spreading pink in the snow. He hadn't planned on that.

He searched wildly all around him, desperate for a stray track, a forgotten empty shell, anything. Even traces had vanished. His mind buckled in confusion.

First Chris, then Phichit barreled around from the side where the bullets had flown, so enraged that their target had escaped, they hadn't time to tell Yuuri they were glad he was alright.

Yuuri sank down and beat his fists against the unyielding snow, angry that it withheld secrets he needed. Chris struck off on his own, ignoring Phichit's concerned, quavering voice. Yuuri wasn't sure what Phichit was saying, until Phichit stilled his shaking hands and coaxed Yuuri to look up. 

“I think your teammate needs us,” he said.

Yuuri knew he also meant he couldn't face another loss of life alone.

So he let Phichit help him up, then let Phichit lean on him as they walked back around the snowbank once more.

Yuri had Guang-Hong cradled in his lap. Tears streamed down his face and disappeared into the snow. It was disturbing how often Yuuri was seeing the other boy cry lately. Yuuri and Phichit sat on either side of him. Yuri surrendered Guang-Hong to Phichit, then turned to Yuuri and sobbed into his shoulder without shame. Yuuri patted Yuri's wild hair with one hand; with the other he made a fist.

JJ sat a little off to the side, butt planted in the snow, rocking back and forth and singing something soft.

Soon, Chris returned, jaw clenched. He said nothing, and they did not press. JJ didn't even register that Chris zip-tied his hands together again. He was fine with being led along. They all said a final goodbye to Guang-Hong, then left him beside the snowbank, with the tarp wrapped over him. But not before Yuri retrieved the arrow that missed and laid it atop the tarp, over Guang-Hong's heart.

They struck out northward again. Chris stayed silent, Phichit sang a respectful lament, and then JJ started his soft song again. There was a strange sense of the universe out of whack, with JJ being quiet. Yuri continued snuffling into Yuuri's shoulder, keeping pace with him as he walked. Yuuri couldn't even savor the monumental trust this entailed; he could only feel numb, and it had nothing to do with the snow.

* * *

Victor didn't even care that he was dribbing tears and snot all over Makkachin's snout.

 _Hang in there. Hang in there, please,_ he thought. Willpower was all he had at the moment, but he'd impart every last drop of it to Yuuri and Yuri if he could. _We're going to get you out. We're going to make our move soon. We're almost there._

He glanced over Makkachin, soothing her whining by scratching behind her ears. He saw Lilia talking to Minako. Minako's eyes were burning, and Victor felt an almost comforting terror over an older, sadder, angrier tribute's bloodlust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- https://archiveofourown.org/works/15467637/chapters/35906928 here's the promised link! Enjoy the fluffy crack!
> 
> \- OMG I'M SO, SO SORRY. Never picking a depressing AU for YOI fic again. EVER. This chapter felt very . . . underwhelming and rusty and blah. Could only write a handful of paragraphs at a time, while feeling like this: https://twitter.com/swtextpost/status/956560511436341248 (Relevent because I love Rey, and my other multi-chap YOI fic is a POTO AU.) Digital fistbump if you, too, are struggling with writing at all in 2018. Don't give up; give yourself time and space. 
> 
> \- Let's celebrate the late and great Dolores O'Riordan. Give this lovely cover of Zombie by Bad Wolves a listen, too: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9XaS93WMRQQ
> 
> \- I found out the triple !!! in Yuri!!! on Ice represents Victor, Yuuri, and Yuri and I WANT TO CRY, BLESS YOU KUBO-SAN AND SAYOKAN.
> 
> -I binge-watched VLD and the fact the villain's name is Zarkon is cracking me up. Also, congrats to the fandom for canon gay Shiro! I'm so fucking happy. (Even though I'd wanted way more content with Adam.)
> 
> -I'm also watching Free! Season 3 and . . . YOU GUYS. I'm 99% sure YOI's impact inspired the writers to go ham here and I'M LOVING IT.
> 
> -Raise your hand if, even though you're super sensitive, you're *also* watching Banana Fish and dying anew with each new episode. Is it weird that the pain we see Ash and Eiji go through made it easier for me to get through writing the pain in this chapter? Bananas!
> 
> -The crow symbol was partly inspired by Gandalf marking Bilbo's door in The Hobbit, partly by blood markings on doorframes in the Biblical Passover. Guang-Hong remembering he forgot to mark a task complete was 100% inspired by me stressing over a forgotten email/report/data upload for work at 1am. Ugh.
> 
> \- Book recs: Worldweavers: Gift of the Unmage by Alma Alexander, The Belles by Dhonielle Clayton (cw: sexual assault), and The Radiant Road by Katherine Catmull. All very magical YA novels that helped me break out of writer's block.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Constructive criticism is welcome.
> 
> RIP to me, I forgot how much work writing angsty teenagers can be. WHY did I make the main characters all teenagers?!
> 
> For every comment received on this fic (including anons), I will donate $1 to Hurricane Maria relief for Puerto Rico and $1 to earthquake relief for Mexico. <3


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